


Wolf-bitten and Lion-hearted: a Tale of the Inquisition

by Pandalist



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, F/M, Multi, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-09-25 07:35:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9809555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandalist/pseuds/Pandalist
Summary: When a former Templar and Circle mage find themselves as Thedas' last bulwark from the Breach, will they be able to overcome their pasts to stitch up the sky? Join Lyrael Lavellan - an albino mage - as she transforms from bookish researcher into the  Inquisitor with her Commander at her side.





	1. The Child of Fen'Harel

 

 

**Cullen**

* * *

_Maker’s breath._

This was a disaster.

Demons momentarily at bay, he cast his eyes to the sickly emerald void. It shook him deep to see the heavens marred by magic. Despite seeing his fair share of magic gone wrong, Cullen was inclined to agree with what Solas had cautioned: this was not the doing of any mage.

A crackling in the air and a shrill call of one of his soldiers brought him back to the present. “Commander! More demons!”

“At the ready!” He roared back, striking his shield with his sword.

In this moment, he was here and fighting; he would not fail his soldiers. All doubts would have to wait.

><><><><><>< 

 

**Lyrael**

* * *

It was easily the most terrifying day of her life.

Head heavy with confusion and hand shooting sharp pains up to her shoulder in an enraged sputtering of raw magic, she didn’t know how she had trekked through snow to the forward camp. News that all of her friends had passed numbed her; she would have to gather Foxgloves and Crystal Grace, she thought hollowly in her as she cast a barrier around the rag-tag group once more. Lyrael just wanted the chance to survive this _madness_ and agreed with Cassandra to charging with the soldiers. In truth, the Seeker seemed more so motivated to get the breach sealed than surviving until sundown. With each wave of demons and each step closer to the temple, Lyrael felt seeing tomorrow was less and less of a possibility.

Baring her mark to yet another rift sent shooting pain up her arm. She exhaled as the sky began to stitch itself back together, thankful it was working. It appeared that each time she sealed a rift, subsequent ones closed quicker and hurt her less. All in all, a relieving discovery. If it wasn’t for the cusp of calamity, she would be excited to research an unheard-of form of magic.

“Sealed, just as before,” observed Solas with a satisfied nod, “You are becoming quite proficient at this.” The elf’s words comforted her some. It had been years since she had seen one of her own and from the rhythm of his speech, she was reminded how much she missed speaking in her native language. Solas was large for an elf; tall and broad, he made her slight frame seem fragile in comparison.

The deep tones of the dwarf, Varric, interrupted her thoughts, “Let’s hope it works on the big one.” He referred to her mark. In that moment, Lyrael realized that he was as out of his depth as she was. It was stabilizing to feel the beginnings of a companionship with someone.

A deep voice, full of authority came from behind her. “Lady Cassandra, you managed to close the rift. Well done.” The soldier nodded.

Cassandra sighed, sidling up to him, “Do not congratulate me Commander, this is the prisoner’s doing.” She turned to stand by his side and Lyrael felt the hair on the nape of her neck prickle. She felt the Seeker and Commander made silent assessments. It seemed like the first-time Cassandra saw her as an individual and not just a killer. The look of surprise on the Commander’s face made the elf blush a bit; she knew that she must have been a disappointing sight. She knew what he saw: willowy mage, more accustomed to wielding a quill than a staff - looking like a completely disheveled mess, no less.

“Is it?” His eyebrows arched, if he was concerned of her capabilities he did not let it show, “I hope they’re right about you. We’ve lost a lot of people getting you here.”

“You’re not the only one hoping that,” She wrung the staff grip anxiously. The Breach lay in wait to ensnare her and she was not ready to meet that trap. It was a long way from her Circle. The quiet alcove of books she had made her home called to her in bitter-sweet pangs. If current situation were any indication, it would be a very long time before she was home again.

Pulling his attention back to the battlefield, the Commander took stock of his surviving troops, “We’ll see soon enough, won’t we? The way to the temple should be clear, Leliana will try to meet you there.”

“Then we best move quickly, give us time Commander.” The seeker motioned the party to ready itself to march on.

His eyes glanced at hers’ one last time, “Maker watch over you. For all our sakes.”

With that, he braced an injured man as they sought to bolster within the last encampment. As Lyrael turned toward the Temple of Sacred Ashes, she wondered if he was concerned that the fate of the Breach laid in her hands. After all, she was a mage forever in the teeth of Fen’Harel.

><><><><><>< 

She was born in a world without colour. From the loose curls on her head to the tips of her toes, her body held no pigment. It was only as she grew into adolescence and connected to the Fade that her mother noted the development of Lilac flecking those pale, knowing eyes. The other children in the clan often teased her for her inability to discern the colourful Fereldan woods around her, but life through her twelfth year were largely similar to that of any elf child. There were days spent running next to Halla, and nights full of laughter and magics with her mother. Still, many among the People were not happy to see such an _anomaly_ among them. Game had become increasingly scarce since her birth and it was often viewed as an ill omen. Her mother’s sister was Keeper Then’Ena, a relation that prevented many from openly mocking her opalescent skin. It did not, however, keep the superstitions from dancing in everyone’s conversations behind tent canvas.

It wasn’t until after a hunting accident did that tenuous peace change. At the age of fourteen, her mother fell trying to hunt down a lone wolf that had been terrorizing the local game. Lyrael heard the unkind whispers fly around camp and felt them echo around the ritual observances she tried to hold in honor of mother’s life. Parents cautioned their children to not comfort or play with her, otherwise they too may know the ‘Bite of Fen’Harel’.

On a particularly long trip North in the Free Marches, the Keeper informed her she would no longer be part of the clan and that she would be left in Kirkwall’s Alienage with her brother. Though scared for who this _brother_ was and never having set foot in a human settlement, she was not altogether sad to leave. Neither was she sad to lose claim to being Dalish. Her ‘own kind’ by this time had placed a bitter taste in her mouth.

Tommun was more than willing to take her in until she was of age. Her adapt towards his own trade of potions and poultices soon made them well sought out in the Alienage. Within the following two years, she felt more settled than she had ever felt with her new-found brother. Right up until she left the comfort of his company, they never talked of her mother or the clan, and there were many times over the years that she silently wondered if they were even of the same blood.

Though she had never learned shame of her magic from her time spent with the Dalish, she learned swiftly that magic made her vulnerable. After close run-in with Templars upon her return from gathering herbs just outside of the Kirkwall, she took her few belongings and ran into the night. She was able to avoid the Circle for nigh four years, but has her life had proved thus far, luck only extends so far before it snaps back like the string on an archer’s bow. She found Ostwick’s circle was as much of a home as any, and the shelves upon shelves of tomes kept much of her loneliness at bay.

To the surprise of the First Enchanter, her magics were largely mature from her own teachings and she deftly overcame her harrowing within her first year among them.  She suspected that they either felt comfortable with her inclination toward barrier magics and healing rather than more than more aggressive arts, or they were happy enough to see her fail and made Tranquil. Nevertheless, after her success, general fears within the tower were quelled regarding the ‘ _feral Dalish apostate’._

Though neutral compared to many Circles during much of the Mage Rebellion, dissent began among the enchanters. When the meeting at the Temple of Sacred Ashes was called, she felt it only natural to answer. Lyrael, along with a few colleagues traveled to place their measured words among the rest.

Now running headlong towards a Pride demon, she cursed herself: _I should have known the Dread Wolf would come again._

><><><><><><

 

**Cullen**

* * *

Soldiers yelled in triumph around him, but he was not ready to celebrate. The mage had made the breach stable, this much was true, but it still clung to the sky in defiance. It would not be dismissed so easily. He wiped his dry tongue against his lip and swallowed thickly. _Andraste, give me the strength._

It was Varric’s call that brought him back to the present, “Uh, Seeker?”

“Ugh… what is it now, Varric?” She returned, weary. Maker, it had been a day that felt like a span.

“Oh, nothing… it’s just…” Even from across the field, the sarcasm carried to them. Cullen found the feat in itself irritatingly impressive, “You may want to come here. Your _other_ prisoner has passed out again.”

“Is she injured?” Cullen called as they approached.

Solas kneeled by her side and noted a superficial nose bleed, but little else by way of wounds. “Not from what I can see. Her body may have just tired itself out. This _anchor_ – it weaves powerful magic. It will take time for her to get used to wielding such a force.”

Lyrael gave a low sob of pain. Suddenly, a barrier was cast around her – strong enough to repel the four of them back. Varric, who was just leaning down to make another wise-crack observation, was pushed with the most force as he stumbled back and crashed flat on his hind end.

“What in Andraste’s tears _was_ that?!” he cursed, righting himself.

“She… cast a barrier.” Cassandra started, “I did not know that was _possible_ to do in one’s sleep.”

With a huff the dwarf retorted, “Let’s just mark that as yet another impossible thing she has done today.”

The trio waited a few moments for the barrier to dissipate, but Lyrael began muttering through sobs. “Keep back,” Cullen cautioned, feeling her pull upon the veil around them.  “She is forming a larger barrier.” Added the apostate.

“What?!”  the Seeker yelled back in alarm.

“How are we supposed to get her back to Haven at this rate?” Varric said more to himself than anything else. He looked up at the sky and saw dusk falling upon them.

Sheathing his sword and passing Cassandra his shield, Cullen took a steading breath. It had been some time since he last weakened a mage’s draw on the Fade, but there did not seem to be many options available. She needed to be seen by a healer. One foot in front of the other, Cullen braced his arm as if he were wielding a shield of spirit pushing through the outer layers of the barrier.

 

_‘Is there no end to these demons?’ Lyrael shouted in her feverish dream._

_Alone, she battled. Alone, she was over-run._

_Again, and again she cast wards and protection spells only to have them dissipate before she was finished casting._

_I do not want to die._

_Unyielding, venomous fangs bared themselves at her bare flesh and raking claws grabbed at her limbs._

_Maker, I do not want to die!_

_Each moment made her movements increasingly sluggish._

_As if coated in_ _litres_ _of tree sap._

 

Kneeling by her side, he drew an arm underneath her to prop her up. He concentrated hard. It was easy to over-power a Quell and end up violently distancing her connection to the fade.  However, a gentle separation – if he could manage it –  should help her settle into some much-needed rest and enable them to get her back to some proper healers. He took the glove on his other hand between his teeth and tugged it free. Bare palm placed across her forehead, he closed his eyes and placed a barrier of his own.

 

_Sweat._

_Fumes._

_Fevered attempts at escape._

_No release._

 In a moment of nigh lucidity, her eyes fluttered open to the sharp sounds and senses of the waking world. The clouds illuminated from the setting sun set her vision on fire. She took a sharp intake of breath and began to panic.  

“Lyrael. You are alright, but I need you to keep still.”  A calm voice instructed. In a last burst of desperation, the elf tried to cover her head in protection with her hands. A cooling touch drained all resistance from her and she her consciousness began to ebb into nothingness.

Time stuttered. One moment, she lay in rubble fighting to keep her eyes open. With a blink, a gentle sway of movement made her vaguely aware she was being carried. She searched one last time for some semblance of security. She found a jawline of stubble and a halo of golden hair. It was the same colour she had imagined the sun would be: warming and loud. She never imagined a colour so _loud._

“Pretty…” she mumbled to her porter drowsily.

Smiling amber eyes warmed her as a chuckle rumbled through his chest and lulled her into a dreamless repose.

 


	2. The Child Becomes the Herald

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a former Templar and Circle mage find themselves as Thedas' last bulwark from the Breach, will they be able to overcome their pasts to stitch up the sky? Join Lyrael Lavellan - an albino mage - as she transforms from bookish researcher into the Inquisitor with her Commander at her side.
> 
> In this installment Lyrael discovers stabilizing the breach was only the start of things, and she begins to settle in amongst Haven's finest. Thankfully, she finds a few companions along the way.

  **Lyrael**

* * *

Dawn flitted across the horizon and danced its way through her open window. Haven had been waking for well over an hour with agents milling her and there, and hammer meeting anvil in the distance. Lyrael did not know whether to laugh or to cry at her situation. She counted herself lucky that there had been a box of healing herbs inside the cabin. Colours assailed her senses and she had to close her eyes often since waking to fend off the headache that twanged at her brow. The herbs had added an earthy note to her morning tea, and within a few sips, she felt the pain dwindle.

Taking the chance Lyrael looked about her, soaking in her environment. An ample bed sat just to the left of the hearth within the main room of the cabin, storage boxes and a chest of drawers nestled in the sort-of entrance quarter; this was no prison.

Perched on the desk and staring unblinking at the bark of the tree just outside the window, she mutters to herself, “Its fine.” Her hand shaky as she lifts her mug of lavender tea and takes a tenuous sip. “All fine. I’m not going crazy… the world is just on the brink of an apocalyptic disaster and mine own eyes are threatening to over-take me.”

A knocking came from the cabin door, “Lady Lavellan?”

She jumped at the sudden intrusion from her monologue and spilled tea upon the hardwood desk with a whispered, “Kaffas.”

“Lady Lavellan?” persisted the Antivan-lilted voice, “I’m coming in, so I do hope you are decent.”

After a short pause, the door groaned open and revealed the face of a mahogany-skinned brunette bearing a small tray. She moved with purpose and a grace she had only seen humans attempt. It reminded her of the self-assured strides of her aunt. Assessing her clothing in amusement, Lyrael thought to herself ‘there should be an award for her ability to wear brash fabrics with such ease.’

Setting the tray near Lyrael’s mug, the woman turned around and adjusted her sleeves. Once satisfied, she offered a genuine and gracious welcome, “Andaran atish’an, Herald.”

“You speak Elven?” Lyrael returned curious. Her pronunciation was practiced and clear.

The Antivan smiled, admitting “You’ve heard the entirety of it, I am afraid. I am Josephine Montilyet and I work with the Inquisition as a… diplomat, if you will. Ah! But I have come for more than to just exchange pleasantries.” She spoke like silk and spun Lyrael into a cocoon of compliance; a diplomat indeed. Josephine gestured to the basket on the tray, “You will find something to refresh yourself. Please, do eat. We request your presence within the Chantry once you are able. I will concede: it may be the start of another long day for you.”

Before Lyrael could ask what an ‘ _Inquisition’_ was, or whom was included when she indicated ‘ _we’,_ the ruffle-cuffed Josephine had excused herself and closed the door behind her with a _ka-chunk._

She found the wicker basket covered in a clean cloth, and lifting it out of the way there was a breakfast of grapes and a seeded bread. Picking up the basket, she moved to sit on the windowsill. Lyrael munched on the grapes as she watched a starling jump from limb to limb in the tree just outside. From the bread, she brushed some of the seeds off onto the snow below the window. The bird tilted its head, eyeing the newly presented food. Silently, she watched him glide down. Using her new-found friend as a time keeper of sorts, she allowed herself to watch his cautious flutters, only making herself leave the warmth of the cabin once he had darted out of view.

><><><><><>< 

She walked up the steps between two large mabari statues, nearly running headlong into Varric. He looked pensive as he stoked the fire near his tent.

He laid a fresh log onto the flame, “So, now that Cassandra is out of earshot, are you holding up alright? I mean, you go from being the most wanted criminal in Thedas to joining the armies of the faithful.” He shook his head at the absurdity of it all, “Most people would have spread that out over more than one day.”

He spoke to Lyrael as if he had known her all her life, the familiarity was warming. “I don’t even want to think about how many lives were lost on that mountaintop.” she admitted. In front of the advisors, she wanted to put up a brave face, but the truth was plain. Things looked bleak.

Varric nodded, “A lot of good men and women didn’t make it out of there.”

“We could lose even more, if we aren’t careful… I… I’m not sure how I fit into all of this, but I’m a healer. I should do what I can to stem the wounds from whatever that _thing_ is up there.” She knew she should not have survived the Conclave. Every bit of her being screamed for self-preservation, but she could not ignore something this consequential.

“For days now, we’ve been staring at the Breach, watching demons and Maker-knows-what fall out of it.” He sighed, “Bad for morale would be an understatement. I still can’t believe anyone was in there and lived.”

There was nothing more she could say, he was right. She may have been from the Circle, but she was far from devout. Even so, she was having trouble citing anything other than divine intervention for their survival.

“You just make sure you take care of yourself, Violet. With that mark on your hand, you will be counted on to be part in fixing all of this…” Varric furrowed his brows in concern, “I know you didn’t ask for any of this, and to be honest, you might want to consider running at the first opportunity. I’ve written enough tragedies to recognize where this is going.”

The joke rang hollow in the air around them. She would run in a heartbeat, if she could, but where is there to hide in a crumbling world?

“Heroes are everywhere. I’ve seen that. But the hole in the sky? That’s beyond heroes. We’re going to need a miracle.” And with that, he strode off in the direction of the pub.

><><><><><>< 

**Cullen**

* * *

Arriving at the Chantry, he found the war room a stuffy and dimly lit place. Nodding a greeting to Leliana and Josephine, he approached the table to review the reports pertinent to their meeting. Though losses could have been worse after the Conclave, there was not enough leeway to be lax. Rifling through some papers as the Spymaster and Ambassador tittered on in Orleasian, he decided it was better they were unaware he was able to converse in the language and let them have their privacy, lest they start having him meet with Orleasian dignitaries. _A fate worse than death_ , he thought.

He vaguely registered some idle gossip exchanged as he pulled out the report on their newly-found Herald. From all of their research into her background while she was convalescing, they found she lived much of her life similar to any Circle mage. Her youth was spent as an apostate, before her time in Ostwick. There were considerable laudits regarding her healing abilities, but little about her inclinations toward offensive magics. Simply put, he doubted the combat capabilities of their newest member. Her arrival pulled him from his thoughts - a steady knock on the door gave way to her entrance into the world of the young family of the Inquisition.

Cassandra, chomping at the bit, began introductions. “You’ve met Commander Cullen, leader of the Inquisition’s forces.”

Doing his best to offer her a natural smile, he began politely, “It was only for a moment on the field, I am pleased you survived.”

“This is lady Josephine Montilyet,” Cassandra continued, not one for beating about the bush, “our ambassador and chief diplomat.”

Josephine’s quill brandished in her hand as fierce as any warrior with their blade. She winked conspiratorially towards Lyrael, a gesture he almost missed.

“And our Spymaster Sister Leliana.” Cassandra pushed on.

“Yes, tactfully put Cassandra.” The Nightingale cooed.

Lyrael bow a shallow curtsy and continued the pleasantries, “Pleased to meet you and your titles.”

The jest drew a genuine chuckle from him, and brought her attention back to his face. He felt acquainted with her somehow – as if he had seen her before the breach… but where?

“Yes, well… I mentioned that your mark needs more power to close the breach for good.” Presented the seeker, trying to keep momentum despite the elf’s crack at levity.

“Which means,” began Leliana, “we must approach the rebel mages for help – “

“—and I still disagree. The Templars could serve just as well!” He quipped, echoing what they had been bickering for hours.

“We need power, Commander. Enough magic poured into that mark – “, Cassandra began.

Once more, Cullen shot a ready reply “—Might destroy us all! Templars could suppress the breach, weaken it so – “

“—Pure speculation.” The Spymaster was not impressed.

He wanted to growl in frustration. “ _I_ was a Templar, I know what they are capable of.” Though he was a Knight-Captain no longer, he still held himself as such. Habit was hard to break. He noted his own hand on the pommel of his sword, and felt the aura of dispelled magics around him.

“Unfortunately, neither group will even speak to us yet. The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition, and _you_ specifically.” Josephine gestured towards the elf, trying to gain some semblance of control, a sentiment Lyrael seemed more than happy to endorse.

“They still think I am guilty.” She stated, unsurprised that not everyone was relieved she was alive.

The Ambassador was ready for her concerns, “That is not the entirety of it any longer. Some are calling you, a Dalish elf, the Herald of Andraste and that frightens the Chantry. The remaining clerics have declared it blasphemy, and _we_ heretics for harboring you.”

“Chancellor Roderick’s doing, no doubt.” Scoffed Lady Cassandra. Her ready skepticism entertaining, when not pointed in his own direction. Though, Cullen thought wryly, Chancellor Roderick made a good scapegoat for her ire. He almost felt sorry for him – _almost._

“It limits our options, approaching the mages or Templars for help is currently out of the question.” Continued Josephine, attempting to pacify the advisors.

><><><><><>< 

 

**Lyrael**

* * *

“I’m not even Dalish…” Lyrael dismissed with a wave of her hand, “and just how am I the Herald of Andraste?” While her exterior was cool, bordering on the nonchalant, her mind reeled. _This is all too much._

“People saw what you did at the Temple, how you stopped the Breach from growing. They have also heard about the woman seen in the rift when we first found you. They believe that was Andraste.” Declared the Seeker, putting to words what Cassandra herself was coming to believe about the elf in their company.

Leliana started, “Even if we tried to stop that view from spreading – “

“– Which we have not.” Cassandra interjected.

“The point is everyone is talking about you!” Spymaster finished with a smile. Lyrael knew to watch this one; the flame-haired woman saw opportunities in every whispered word.

“It’s quite the title, isn’t it?” chuckled the Commander, “How do you feel about that?”.

Lyrael placed her hands on the war table and exhaled, “I’m not sure how I should feel”. She felt no connection with the old gods of Elvhen nor towards the Maker. The whole situation, however, seemed so meticulously laid before them all, she was shaken by the aura of divinity surrounding it all.

“The Chantry has decided that for you, it seems.” Cullen laughed once more. She closed her eyes for a moment, the headache threatening to rake its claws across her forehead. How did people prevent themselves from going mad? Even in the window-less quarters, the new emergence of colour screamed for her attention. The world pulsed with an energy she was altogether too sensitive to – like a frigid breeze striking a patch of skin that had long been bandaged. _Too much._

“People are desperate for a sign of hope, for some you are that sign.” Leliana stated, causing her jerk her head up and out of her musings.

“And to others, a symbol of everything that has gone wrong.” Josephine admitted, in turn.

The air was heavy with the gravity of the recent situations surrounding them. Lyrael let herself take a breath. Then two. “So, if I wasn’t with the Inquisition – “

Cullen’s voice grumbled with frustration, “Let’s be honest, they would have censured us no matter what.”

“And you not being here is not an option.” Finalized Cassandra.

“There is something you can do.” Leliana divulged, referencing a report an Inquisition agent brought in earlier that morning. “A Chantry Cleric by the name of Mother Giselle has asked to speak to you. She is not far, and knows those involved far better than I. Her assistance could be invaluable.”

Though the request in itself seemed a reasonable one, Cullen himself voiced some apprehension in sending the Herald out into the field. “She’s only just recovered – stabilizing the breach left her unconscious for days…” He began, skirting his true reserves.

“I am still here,” she steeled, locking eyes with him. “and so is the Breach. Better to see what this Mother has to say and try to lessen tensions in the region before we branch out further.”

He inclined his chin in encouragement. Lyrael was a quick study and she knew it. In this moment, she knew her life depended on her invested interest in soaking up as much information as she could. Even so, she was not sure where her boldness came from.

After a moment, he pulled forward a report delivered by Scout Harding, “I would also suggest seeking out Horsemaster Dennet while in the area. He would be a great asset to have, if he were willing.”

“We need our agents to extend beyond this valley; who better to recruit them than the Herald of Andraste herself?” Josephine seemed to agree, adding, “It would be wise to ensure refugees in the Hinterlands are safe and well taken care of as well. Some may rise to the cause if they know their families are secure.”

Cassandra nodded in agreement, “This is true. In the meantime, let us think of other options, I will not leave this all to the Herald.”

Lyrael counted on her fingers, “Meet Mother Giselle, convince Dennet to join us, tame Templars and Mages, and aid refugees where possible… does that about cover it?”

With a laugh, Cullen added, “Come back in one piece!”

She gave a natural smile and responded good-naturedly, “No promises! Now, unless you need me further, I should see about researching natural fauna and flora some to prepare for this excursion.”

“Worry not, we will take care of the specifics Herald,” Josephine spoke for them all, much to Cullen’s chagrin.

She stood up and took her hands from the table. Meeting their eyes, she offered a silent nod, and slipped out the door. With a low thud, the thick wooden door met the masonry frame.

><><><><><>< 

Her role was more involved than she had realized; she let out a ragged breath. Everything within her plead for a retreat under covers in the bed of a cottage halfway across Thedas. Away from the metallic clanging of troops training. Away from Andrastian refugees casting her awed glances. Well away from the damnable hole in the veil. But she was here. And here meant she had to face it all. But not until she gathered some sort of bearings with her surroundings, she braced. Firstly, would examine the supplies and abilities of the Potions Master. The steady boil of tonics and tinctures over a carefully maintained flame tended to ease her nerves. Walking in the direction an Inquisition messenger had motioned her, she heard motor meeting pestle and smelled the familiarity of dried medicinal herbs.

Upon entering the door, a sarcastic laugh welcomed her, “Hah, look who’s back from the dead… again.”

The voice belonged to a bearded Alchemist in his late thirties who looked well used to making due with what little he had available. Something about how he held himself reminded her of her brother Tommun from Kirkwall, “I don’t recall meeting you before.” She admitted.

“I’d be surprised if you did. You weren’t particularly coherent.” He stated matter-of-factly, “Commander Cullen carried you through Haven’s gates and someone had to patch you up after you staggered out of the Maker-knows-where, though, so you are welcome.”

She thought back to the day when she confronted the Breach. Remembering some of the things she likely muttered in her altered state to the Commander, she blushed a bit. Thankfully he had yet to mention them. Besides the lingering twinges from the anchor, she found no other ails or pains. “I should thank you, though I do not know the extent of my injuries, I can tell you stitched me up well.”

“Yeah, well… You can pay me back by fixing the world.” He returned almost uncomfortably. It was if he was unused to being thanked for his work, though it was likely truth given the state of things. “Name’s Adan. I’m in charge of keeping our little band here stocked with potions and elixirs… Not that Seeker Pentaghast seems to care whether we’ve got the supplies to actually _do_ that.”

Lyrael’s ears visibly pricked, “What are you in need of?”

“What aren’t we? Elfroot, embrium, blood lotus, deep mushrooms… I didn’t have much stocked as it was. The little rendezvous with the fade has bled me dry – for lack of a better phrase.”

“The area seems teeming with herbs.” She observed.

“Yeah, and after losing a few good healers to bandits, I stopped sending people out to gather them.” He bit in agitation, he then turned back to his shelves, taking stock.

Keeping a respectful distance, she joined him, “What ailments are you having to address most?”

“As you can see, we aren’t situated in the best place for a hospital. Infections have caused a real strain – otherwise: fever-reducers, and pain relievers have seen the most use by far.” Curious as to her intent, he stepped back and let her have full access to his herbs.

“Hmm…” She began to rummage through the bottles and vials with deft fingers, “I could make a concentrated draught using some of what you already have. It should go further and allow me time to search for some of the more elusive ingredients you need.” With that, she pulled a satchel of dried bark and a dark elixir from the shelf.

 _Ravenswood,_ she confirmed taking a tentative taste of the bitter smelling bark. Perfect, when brewed, for easing great amounts of pain with a small dosage.

“That there is toxic.” Adan stated pointing at the philter in her other hand, “I only use that in extreme cases to draw out venom from reptilian bites.”

Carrying the ingredients to the table, she organized the materials around her. “Distilled, and boiled with shredded elfroot tubers and chopped Ravenswood, it becomes a potent painkiller and staves off even the most persistent of infections. Of course, it’s not to be drank. You have to add a few drops to the wound before applying a clean dressing. If you have need of a general palliative, I could look into that as well.” She offered, finally looking up from the cutting board where she had been steadily dicing the bark. Suddenly aware she had likely over-stepped her bounds, she sat that knife down and wiped her hands against each other.

Far from upset, Adan guffawed and clapped a calloused hand heartily upon her shoulder, “Maker dip me head-first in the Waking Sea! It’s mad enough to work!” He quickly set to placing a clean cauldron on the metal crane over the fire. In it, he emptied the contents of the philter – diluting it to Lyrael’s specifications.

“There is one problem, however…” He indicated, taking over the task of chopping up the Ravenswood, “In the triage after the Breach… well… my potions-makers have all but ripped up all the elfroot inside Haven’s walls.”

It was all the urging Lyrael needed. Within no time, she was back in the cabin she awoke in, preparing for a short excursion into the valley. If she could return by sundown with some elfroot tubers, the drought should be ready before midnight. Wrapping the remains of the seeded bread in a cloth and placing it in a small jute sack, Lyrael searched about for something to carry the herbs. In the entranceway, she found various wooden crates and barrels. She searched among them until she found a tight-woven fishing net. _Perfect!_

Striding through the front gates of Haven, the realization became clear that she may not be as free to roam as she had thought. Seeing the steady stance of Cullen in the distance, she wondered who better to ask about her safety in the valley than the Commander himself.

><><><><><>< 

**Cullen**

* * *

“You there! There is a shield in your hand, block with it! If this man were your enemy you’d be dead! Lieutenant, don’t hold back. The recruits must prepare for a real fight, not a practice one.” he barked.

“Yes, Commander.” The Lieutenant returned.

Immersed in the training yard, he was in his element. In the war room, he felt useless. He always tried to stay concise, as he was ever aware his soldiers needed him most. _‘Taking care of the specifics’_ as Josephine had put it earlier meant two more hours of mapping and planning. Talking just made him anxious _. Maker_ , he was ready to act.

On light feet, the Herald exited the safety of Haven’s walls. If it wasn’t for the crackling energy surrounding the anchor as it flexed the Fade about her, he was fairly sure she would have slipped right by him. When he addressed Lyrael, her shoulders jerked in alarm “We’ve received a number of recruits – locals from Haven and some pilgrims. None made _quite_ the entrance you did.”

“I just hope I can help.” She offered cautiously, her countenance no-where close to the undaunted façade she wore in the meeting.

 He turned from his troops and gave her what he hoped was a reassuring bow, “As do we all.”

“Ser!” one of his ranked officers, Jim, caught his attention. The Commander accepted the missive and began to massage at the back of his neck. Though he tried to keep his eyes trained on the document, he couldn’t prevent himself stealing glances at her. Once or twice, he thought he caught her catching glimpses of him in turn. His face tinted in a blush as her eyes locked with his; a silence grew between them as they turned to look at the swell of the mountains around them.

“Tell me, how does a Templar become a Commander?” she encouraged, taking the first step.

A deep breath relaxed his shoulders, obviously relieved for the direction, “Cassandra herself approached me afterward the uprising in Kirkwall. She sought a solution. When she offered me a position, I left the Templars to join her cause. Now it seems we face something far worse.”

“Kirkwall…” She echoed, searching the frozen lake beyond them.

“Yes, I – “, Cullen stopped short in awareness. He closed his eyes, remembering that night years ago, he remembered where they had met before. So much for a fresh start with the Inquisition. Between his troops slipping up and calling him ‘Knight-Captain’, the insistent temptations of Lyrium’s whispers, and now this… would he ever escape the sins of the man he once was?

She hummed to herself, low and calming. “You seemed to have healed well since then.”

“I – yes.” _Maker, he sounded like a daft Fereldan farmhand,_ “I have you to thank for that.”

She turned back to him. He wanted to shrink under her gaze. He was not altogether proud of their previous encounter. Lyrael, however, did not seem angry as he would have guessed, “I’m sorry,” she said at last.

Cullen remembered the venomous words he spat at her as she had healed the deep gash above his left hip. Lowtown had proven to be a formidable place in the dark. “S-sorry? Why is that? If anything – “, he stammered, confused.

“ –  You had rights to be angry, I did not ask before casting upon you.” The mage reasoned.

Brow wrinkled in a frown. Even so, he could not accept his behaviour. “Still, I was less than grateful. I – I was not myself, and for that I am sorry.” Feeling utterly wretched, he couldn’t even look at her.

A peal of laughter erupted beside him, “Look at us, fighting between us to be the most reticent!” Her bright lilac irises danced with amusement as she angled her face to make eye contact. “Fools, aren’t we?” Despite himself, he smirked.

Satisfied, she righted herself and continued, “Believe it or not, my goal was not to take a trip in memory.” At that they released an embarrassed snicker together, “After the meeting, I spoke some with Adan. He was informing me of some of what he needed to get our troops fighting fit.”

“Oh? I did hear Cassandra grumbling about him under her breath yesterday. She never explained, though.” He remarked, glad that the conversation had moved to a subject other than his failures.

Lyrael’s voice lilted on, “He complained in turn about her, it seems there is no love lost there. In any case, I was hoping to gather up some of what we need from the valley. I was going to ask if it would be best for a soldier to accompany me. From what Adan said, the valley hasn’t exactly been secure.”

He nodded in agreement as he motioned for a lieutenant to join them. “I want you to make sure everyone is properly geared. Run them around the lake and release them for the evening rations. I will be watching – stragglers will get half-rations for breakfast tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, ser!” came the response.

Attention back on Lyrael, he explained, “I’ll accompany you. Perhaps the outing might serve as an olive branch, of sorts?”

Her lop-sided smile was confirmation enough.

><><><><><>< 

 

**Lyrael**

* * *

A silence grew between them as she trained her eyes on the trees and underbrush for the herbs she needed. Steady crunching of their boots served as the only conversation for several minutes. She had become used to the presence of Templars following wherever she went that, upon realization, she felt guilty when she noted herself ignoring the Commander.

“You seem to place a great deal of trust in the Inquisition.” She spoke at last.

If the quiet had bothered him, he did not indicate as such when he answered, “I do. The Chantry lost control of both the Templars and mages. Now they argue over a new Divine while the Breach remains. The Inquisition could act when the Chantry cannot. Our followers would be part of that. There’s so much we can – “, he stops himself, “Forgive me. I doubt you asked for a lecture.”

“No, but if you have one prepared, I’d love to hear it.” She teased, finding his chivalry charming. The dedication he held for their group spoke wonders. It was completely refreshing to be in the company of someone so passionate for their cause.

A gentle chuckle flows from him as he reached a hand to scratch the nape of his neck, “Another time perhaps.”

“Your accent though – it does not come from Kirkwall.” Spying a few defiant leaves poking through a pile of snow, she made her way to the foot of some trees. Elfroot was typically a solitary plant, but this high in the mountains she had seen it crop up in dense patterns before. Using a heavy boot to shift the snow aside, she saw she was correct in this assumption.

Her diverted focus must have relaxed him some, as he began to open himself from her prompting, “That obvious?” he began lightly, “I was born and raised in Fereldan. Honnleath, actually. Were it for my siblings, it would have been a quiet childhood.”

“Ahh, that region of Fereldan is beautiful, particularly in late spring, if I remember.” She looked over her shoulder, taking a break from her digging. “The clan only went through once or twice, and never through Honnleath... but the surrounding woods were always peaceful. Do you miss it?”

His eyes searched her face for a moment, his expression unreadable. Dropping his glance to the plants she was up-rooting, he bent to aid her, “I haven’t seen my family in some time – haven’t even set foot in Fereldan in almost ten years, not that I was particularly sad to leave. I _am_ long over-due for a visit, though between the Divine’s murder and the Breach, it seems that will have to wait.” He pulled out a dagger and cut through some of the tougher layers of frozen earth.

Much of the next hour passed similarly: ambling from snowdrift to snowdrift, uprooting herbs and snippets of each other’s past. She learned of his siblings and offered her condolences on his parent’s death during the family’s retreat to South Reach. As he spoke, she started making observations of the Inquisition’s Commander outside of the war room. If they would be risking lives for one another, she would like to know whose company she was keeping, and – as her mother used to say – a mouth can lie, but the way a man carries himself will tell only truths.

Cullen was not a man to put on airs. The few secrets he did have, he held close to his chest. As soon as he realized her curiosity was just that and not an attempt to pry, he carried his side of the conversation openly and his posture widened. Unlike many of the young farmhands-turned-soldier she had come to see among his ranks, the Commander wore his armor well. Broad shoulders held pauldrons easily and years of carrying the additional weight made him light on his feet despite layers of leather and metal. Even the gregarious mantel that encircled him did little to overpower his own stature.

Whether nerves or discomfort, he began shifting weight between his legs the longer they stood in one place. She wondered if the wound she had tried to heal back in Kirkwall still ailed him as, at one point, he had bent to remove a particularly resistant plant from the earth and she could smell the floral notes of a healers’ tea in his breath.

Before she had realized, the afternoon had passed into early evening. Dusk began to fall upon them as she assessed her harvest. The net was full and, although not overly-heavy, she found herself dragging the unwieldy bundle through the snow. But she was pleased. This would benefit many an inquisition soldier for weeks to come. Deciding it was high time to return back to Haven, the duo started the trek back to their supper. 

><><><><><>< 

**Cullen**

* * *

Throughout that afternoon, he was able to help her amass quite a pile of the plants she needed. However, as he leaned down to carry them for her for their return, she had already began tying the ends of the net around her to form a makeshift pack. “I had hoped to serve as the pack-horse on this outing,” he scratched his neck uncertainly.

Her face, tinted pleasantly in a blush, though from the cool wind or in embarrassment, he was not sure. “I’m sorry! I am just used to figuring these things out on my own – you would not believe the fragility among fellow enchanters!” She spoke in a rush. _Embarrassment then,_ he determined. A flustered pause overtook her.

Her fluttered nerves seemed infectious as they both ended up speaking at once:

“I can imagine–“, he started.

“I apologize–“, she began.

A blush now overtaking them both, they took turns urging the other to speak and avoiding eye contact.

In the end, he stilled and let her continue, “Its just – I fear you’ve found me rude today.”

“What?” He turned, back to her.

“At first, you remember? I was so focused on getting the supplies needed for Adan and our troops, it seems I left you in silence for a while.” She picked at the hem of her sleeve.

With a relieved sigh, “It was actually nice to share company with someone whom I didn’t need to run reports by. And –“ he stopped himself short, almost too honest for his own good. He nearly told how he had enjoyed getting to experience some moments of her away from the lofty role of Herald that she was thrust into. A bit of him was guilty for finding himself looking at her as often as he did. Something about seeing more of her personality bloom before him drew him like a moth to a flame.

Of course, all these thoughts were only in the Commander’s head. When she cued him with a prodding, “And?” it was at that point he realized he had trailed off.

“And, if anything, I still feel like it is I that owes the apology.” He finished lame as a knock-kneed plow.

They were approaching the edge of the row of tents that held his quarters. Even though he had enjoyed their outing, the awkward exchange he had lost control over made him wish for a retreat into his tent. She moved in front of him, blocking his path. He thought to himself how pink her lips looked contrasted against her snowy skin, his eyes shot up suddenly back to hers when she started speaking to him.

“That reminds me,” Lyrael crossed her arms in front of herself and tilted her head quizzically, “I was wanting to look at you without your armor on.”

Heat shot across his face and down his neck so quickly, he almost forgot he had spent the entire day in anyplace other than the wintery Haven valley. “I-uh… y-you want…?”

Her own eyes widened in alarm as she understood the context of her words, “Ah! That is… I wanted to check that hip to see how it had healed! Not that I want to see you naked!”

Placing a gloved hand on his forehead to cover his embarrassment, he heard her rattle on anxiously, “Not to say you are unattractive or that seeing you naked would be a bad thing! Its that- its just that –“ she cringed and grabbed her own arms in a protective hug, “Ah, fasta _vass!_ ” Lyrael cursed at herself.

Though he knew it was a slip of the tongue on her part, thinking back to some of the more embarrassing thoughts he had about her over their excursion, he felt a bit bashful. More than once when leaning in to help her, he found her hair smelled invitingly of lavender and rosemary, and having to chastise himself for letting himself studying the lilac in her eyes. Breathing deep and righting himself, he was about to excuse himself when Varric’s baritone voice approached.

“Maker, Curly! What have you done to our poor Herald now?” Normally, Cullen would have been irritated by his teasing presence, but at this moment he was happy for the intervention. The dwarf’s appearance sobered Lyrael as well.

“He helped me gather healing herbs.” She mumbled, patting the bundle on her back.

“Very kind of you, Curly. Though by the look on both of your faces…” Varric paused for dramatic effect, smirking as he continued, “you didn’t do anything _untoward_ to Violet, did you?”

At the accusation, she flushed again and Cullen himself indignantly returned, “I would do no such –“.

The dwarf interrupted, hands raised in mock innocence, “Easy easy, it was just a jest. You both looked so serious over here, that I thought a dose of laughter would set you both to rights.”

Before Cullen could growl back, Lyrael recovered “Violet?” she asked, curious.

With a wink at the Commander, Varric returned his attention to the elf. “Just a nickname. In case you hadn’t noticed, your complexion is quite muted. I would suggest bold patterns, lest we lose you in the snow and mountains.”

“So, ‘Violet’ because?” She continued, not taking the bait.

“Your eyes of course! I’d say you have the most striking eyes I have ever seen. Maker, you could see a person’s soul with those! Don’t you agree, Curly?” Varric explained, dragging Cullen back into the conversation he was about to slip from.

He took a moment to meet her gaze, pretending outwardly that he had all but spent the better part of the afternoon peering into them. “Ahem, well… I really should be getting back to work.”

“Oh, you’re no fun.” Varric jabbed. He inwardly rolled his eyes at the instigative man, in the years since their meeting he had not changed in the slightest.

“Ah, I should be getting back to the apothecary as well. If I do, I should have an elixir ready before tomorrow morning.” Lyrael stated, lifting her head to stare at the sun dying on the horizon.

“You too?” Varric asked, incredulous, “Don’t you two know about the whole ‘all work and no play’ thing?”

Shaking her head with a laugh, Lyrael agreed, “Ok then, meet you at the Singing Maiden for drinks? After I prepare these beauties for the pot, of course.”  She gestured to the pack once more.

“Deal,” He finalized, the promise of a drinking partner satisfied his present meddling. Varric walked backwards a few paces, waggling his eyebrows at the Commander before turning on his heels.

With an exasperated sigh, Cullen admitted, “I now know the source of Cassandra's disgust towards that man.”

Lyrael gave a sheepish smile, “Leaving the Templars seems like it has been good for you.” She said at last. “It is nice to see your kindness on the surface rather than buried.”

“Hah, you should hear what I plan to do to that dwarf _after_ I chortle him!” he joked.  _If only I could give him latrine cleaning details,_ he lamented _._

Lyrael shifted from foot to foot. _The weight on her back must be tiring her_ , he thought. Still, she laughed, “I can’t deny that he would be deserving for all his prying. Still, I want to thank you for today.” 

“Oh? Which part?” his self-deprecating humor rearing again, “For the half dozen times I accidentally tossed dirt on you, or for making you carry your own pack?”

Eyes half-closed in good cheer, she pressed on. “For everything.”

“Hah, I was afraid of that.” He stared down at his boots.

“Honestly. In all this uncertainty, you are a comforting person to be around.” she flashed one more of those heart-stuttering smiles he’d come to enjoy.

“I, ah…” The Commander cleared his throat, “There’s still a lot of work ahead.” If he wasn’t careful, they would be an abashed mess once more.

Over her shoulder, he saw Jim strutting forward with a missive. “Commander! Ser Rylen has a report on our supply lines.”

Relieved, he readily slipped comfortably back into his duties “As I was saying.”


	3. Settling into Haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a former Templar and Circle mage find themselves as Thedas' last bulwark from the Breach, will they be able to overcome their pasts to stitch up the sky? Join Lyrael Lavellan - an albino mage - as she transforms from bookish researcher into the Inquisitor with her Commander at her side.
> 
> In which Lyrael finds herself useful in the Apothecary, and a burden after a bit of a tipple.

**Lyrael**

* * *

Nearly trotting toward the makeshift apothecary, she cursed her pale skin almost as much as she cursed her own mouth. Face and chest betrayed her by showing the embarrassment from the words she had spoken to the Commander. When she made it to the heavy wooden door, she sat down the net of herbs and exhaled sharply to steady herself. Her knock sounded small on the thick door.

After opening to greet her, Adan called over his shoulder. Shortly, a gangly boy shot out to follow his instructions to fetch a couple buckets of water. “When you said that you’d be getting all we needed… I hadn’t imagined this much! We’ll have to see about drying the bulk of the leaves. Unless we suffer another attack while we are still recouping – Maker forbid – we shouldn’t need this much for a while yet.” He said, gathering a half-dozen crates in the middle of the cramped cabin.

Gesturing her in broadly, he set himself down on one such crate and began to break the tuberous roots from the green stems. Rolling up her own sleeves, she let the crackling warmth from the hearth thaw her limbs and fingers before joining the Alchemist in his endeavors to sort through the plants. The small quarters proved nigh claustrophobic as he sent for help from his assistants; it was a wonder that they were able to manage day-to-day between overflowing shelves, a large fireplace, work tables, and cots for the wounded.

The glow from the fire made shadows dance on the wooden walls, and it was well dark when the young boy returned with a pail heavy with water in each hand. “Porter, good lad. Set them here.” A man who could have been a younger, clean shaven Adan instructed as he strode through the door. Into one pail, they tossed dirt-encrusted roots, and in the other, the young men started rinsing leaves and stems. Word must have spread, as not long after a pale-haired woman joined. Stalk by stalk, they progressed through the bunch efficiently as only a practiced and tight-knit group could. Before Lyrael could even thank the diligent circle for their help, the boy took the pail of roots to towel dry and mince at the desk.

“Are all the stalks clean?” The woman asked, not really waiting for an answer before carrying the remaining bucket outside to dump the water. Upon her return to the cabin, she paused a moment and flashed a toothy smile to Lyrael. “Good of you to help us out. I’m Celia, and the boy… well… we don’t rightly know his name. He’s a mute we found stumbling amongst the masses in the weeks leading up to the Conclave. He’s taken to helping here, so we call him Porter – or Port for short.” She sniggered nasally at her own rhyme and plopped herself down heavily on the cot. She was by no means a delicate woman, but the long features in her face alighted pleasantly when she spoke –like a wide-eyed child.

“I guess I’ll introduce myself as well.” The young man chimed in with a nod, “Brannon. I’m Adan’s kid-brother.” Words to the point and tone overly serious, he displayed a flat understanding of manhood, holding his countenance in a way that only a young man forced to become an adult before his time could.

With a grunt, Adan shot a thinly veiled threat his way, “Yeah, and you let me know if he causes trouble for you, Herald. I know where he sleeps.”

“We sleep in the same place, dolt.” Muttered Brannon under his breath, clearly used to such threats.

“The Herald?” Celia’s brows quirked over her grey eyes.

“Ah, forgive me, but you all can just call me by my given name: Lyrael.” She spoke to the group, still unsure how to actually _be_ the Herald. She’d rather postpone donning the title until she knew all of what it entailed.

Introductions out of the way, she stood to aid Porter in chopping while Brannon and Celia busied themselves with tying small bundles of washed elfroot together with twine. Adan stood to survey everyone’s work and took the completed bundles to hang on low wooden rafters. Almost instantly, Celia adopted her as one of the group and set into, what Lyrael expected, was normal banter between her and Brannon. Adan piped in occasionally, but mostly left them to bicker back and forth, arguments ranging from the best method to harvest Rashavine, to whether or not they would have a long winter this year. Their chatter reminded her of the conversations she would over-hear while working in her brother’s Apothecary. With a contented sigh, she tilted her head and tried to focus on chopping. For once, she felt settled. No pressure to prove herself, just amicable company and work to keep her fingers busy. Ever since her conversation with Cullen, she had been ruminating over how little she had heard from Tommun in the last year. _I wonder how he is getting on…_

A steady boil and a few hundred chops from a knife later found a cauldron simmering, full of a deep-coloured elixir. She smiled in satisfaction as she ruffled Porter’s hair, “You did well.” His loamy brown eyes met her own, wincing in happiness.

“Oy, he’s taken with you! Normally quite shy, this one!” Celia beamed, as friendly as a long-legged pup.

Apparently ashamed of his display, the boy ducked his head and turned back to cleaning the worktable. Lyrael looked about her, feeling almost as if she had been transported into the forests of her childhood. The ceiling was positively laden with green bundles.

Celia yawned her farewells as she latched the door behind her, leaving as quickly as she had come.

“She’s always leaving us with the cleaning up…” Brannon groaned, grabbing a broom angrily.

“If you’re wanting to chase after her, Porter and I can finish up here.” Adan cuffed him lightly, a motion that seemed almost affectionate.

The youth reacted strong in denial, betraying some of the feelings he held for the maid. “Y-you’re mad! There’s no way I – Ah, shut it!” He rebuked, setting himself to sweeping all the more forceful.

A small smirk played on Adan’s moustache as he motioned his head towards the door, “It’s late Herald, you’ve done more than your bit.”

With a tired nod, she too slipped out the door.

Arms tired, but mind lighter than it had been since she was cast from the Fade, Lyrael found her way to the Singing Maiden to keep her promise. At least, that was what she told herself. In truth, she knew that as soon as her head hit the pillow, fears and doubt would plague her with continued vigor. Perhaps a good drink or three would help keep her mind from tormenting her more than it already had. Entering the tavern, she sidled up the bar and ordered herself the house mead, not even attempting to look about for Varric. It wasn’t necessary.

His voice boomed over the crowd in a way that only a practiced story-teller could. Even the clear tones from the lute player appeared to serve only to enhance the atmosphere he had crafted. Taking a long swill on her drink, she turned around to catch the end of his tale.

“Demons were everywhere – staff in one hand and the words of a spell dancing on her lips, she thrust the mark on her hand toward the Breach’s maw.” Varric was in command of every soul in the tavern. Engrossed in his story so whole-heartedly, he was standing on his chair, arm high in re-enactment. With the startling realization that he was telling her story, she pulled her hood back up, buried her face into another deep drink from her tankard.

“And?!” an impatient patron urged, not at all willing to absorb the dramatic pause.

“And – the rest –”  he paused again while the audience held bated breaths. Even Lyrael looked up at him, curious. His gaze locked with her long enough to give a rascally wink before releasing the audience from his grasp, “will have to wait for another night.” Amid grumbling and groaning and pleading, the audience thinned steadily until only the most dedicated of drinkers remained.

Sauntering up to the bar, the dwarf settled on a stool next to her. “So, Violet, glad to see you could make it.”

“Mm, and _I’m_ glad you didn’t drag me into your re-telling.” She allowed herself to concede.

“What?! Didn’t you like the story?” He teased, “In honesty, if you didn’t look so Maker-damned-tired, I likely would have.”

She hummed non-committal hum, and took a drink. If he was looking to get a rise out of her, he would be disappointed. Unlike ‘Curly’, has he put it, she could spot verbal bait a mile away. Years of provocation from elves both young and old made her a bit cautious with her words – despite the fool she had made of herself with the Commander. She drank again to forget that particular damning faux pas, wondering with vague dread how their next meeting in the war room would unfold.

As she tipped her tankard to drain it, Varric laid a broad hand across her forearm. “Easy now! I don’t blame you for drinking, but don’t kill yourself.”

Mind barely feeling fuzzy around the edges, she challenged, “I have not yet begun to poison myself. Stick around, you may have an interesting second part to your story.”

><><><><><>< 

**Varric**

* * *

  _Holy Maker,_ he thought to himself, _this elf can drink!_

At first, he was worried she would end up in a sick heap on the floor, but as time passed it seemed she could easily keep abreast with him, even if he did start drinking in earnest. Varric had to hand it to her, she was resilient; more so than one would give her credit for just by looks alone. Even now, after several pints, her slender frame did little to reveal as such. Her only tell that he had discovered thus far was her inclination to slip for words or phrases at a time into other languages. Mostly, she would monologue to herself in Elvish – usually regarding the figure Fen’Harel in a level of reverence. Though Varric was familiar with the Dread Wolf from some of his talks with a Dalish friend he had back in Kirkwall, she always seemed to utter his name in fear or as a curse. Here Lyrael seemed in awe of him, and sparked some questions he would have to ask her next time she was sober.

When the drink started to sway her shoulders, and slur her words, Lyrael spoke less and less of the Common tongue and more in what he thought was Tevene. He couldn’t be too sure, but so long as she didn’t cast another barrier that made him go flying as she had after stabilizing the Breach, he didn’t much mind what she said. At the beginning of the night, he had hung close to her every word, hoping to catch some tawdry detail about her life before Haven that he could spin into gossip. With time, he gave up and just enjoyed the company of the strange child that she was by creating a new drinking game. “Alright Violet the word is ‘ghost’”

“Apparition, specter, shadow, spirit…” She rattled off, almost bored.

“Ah-ah, that’s only four. If you are too drunk to think up one last one, its fine… but you know the rules.” Varric practically purred. He could see he was finally getting a reaction from all the goading he’d done throughout the evening.

“Gah! Ma nuvenin…” she grumbled almost petulant.

“C’mon Vi, for the last time, it doesn’t count if it’s in a language I don’t know.” Came his sing-song reply.

“Ih-in…” Lyrael began, but Varric could sense the evening coming to a close and the thought of his warm bed made him conscious of how late it was getting.

Still, he would have his fun, “Give up?”

“Incorporeal being.” she snapped, triumphant.

“How in the… I’ll admit, that’s a new one. Still, its two words – not one. Check and mate. Per the rules: when one party is no longer able to carry on the game, that party picks up the tab and both adjourn for the night.” Though bracing for some form of protest, none came. Looking at her, _really_ looking at her, he could see the dark under her eyes, “Can you stand? You need rest. You look like you just got back from the Fade!” Even as the words left his mouth, he felt them fall heavy to the ground.

For a moment, a cloud of doubts and fears passed over her brow, but with a blink she was back to her rosy-cheeked, fuddle. She placed delicate hands on the bar and pressed herself standing. “Thank you for tonight, Varric.” Then, with an insolent smirk she added, “Next time I say we add a rule: players have to match drink to drink. Not fair when one of us is still largely sober!”

Before he could comment, she had righted herself with squared shoulders and strode out the door.

><><><><><>< 

A hot bowl of stew and a few harmless flirtations with Flissa found him ready for his bed roll. Boots crunching in the hard-packed dirt outside of his tent, he stilled when he heard the voice of his favourite Seeker.

“This report shows we have little time to waste.” Cassandra grumbled.

“If anything is certain, it’s that the Hinterlands will not be a kind place for our Herald. It is a bit late to start some offensive training with her, but at least –“ Commander Cullen returned in conference. Varric debated on eavesdropping some, but the prospects of seeing both of their scowling faces was just too tempting.

“Already sending us back into the fray?” He quipped, savoring the death glares his mere presence earned him. _This is too easy._

“If you must know, we received a letter – the Crossroads in the Hinterlands has fallen to the fighting between the Templars and Mages.” Cassandra snipped. He could feel her contempt barely contained.

“What? Were you planning on leaving me behind?” He replied, “Or were you hoping to drag me off in my jammies?”

“Ugh,” Her disgusted grunt came as a sound of his victory.

“Cassandra was on her way to tell Lyrael, and I was coming to inform you and Solas.” Cullen stepped in, Varric noting how haggard he looked at this hour.

“Cassandra, huh? I would figure with how chummy you and Violet were earlier that you’d want to inform her.” As nonchalant as the dwarf could be with his words, the Commander’s nervous shifting from the provocation was entertaining. Hell, anytime he could fluster Curly regarding his naiveté with women, Varric was a happy man. This was proving to be a rather fruitful evening.

“I-uh,” Cullen started, “I was just –“

“Yes yes, we all know you have a soft-spot for damsels in distress,” Varric scoffed, leaving Cullen attempting to conceal his blush. “Hey Seeker, does this mean we will be traveling companions?”

Her flat, cold eyes, and clipped tone told all, “It would seem so. Now, if you excuse us dwarf, I need to find the Herald.”

“Last I saw her, she was flushed from some of Flissa’s mead and stumbling towards her cabin.” Lifting the flap of his tent he gave Cassandra the most shit-eating-grin he could muster, “I would be sure to keep an eye out, she may have passed out on her way.”

His last sight of he had of the Seeker was her mouth open, forming a question. The flap on his tent fell to a close with a satisfying slap. Feeling his work was done, he settled down to polish Bianca and get some shut eye – dawn would come quicker than any of them would like.

**Lyrael**

* * *

It had been a long while since she had drunk to such excess. The opportunity was rare in the Circle, as man of the enchanters attending at the same time she was there had adopted austerity as part of their lifestyle. Still, Varric had proved good company, though rather chatty at times for her taste.

Arriving at the top of the stairs guarded by mabaris, she had a bit of a re-think. The world was spinning just enough to be disorienting to her balance. It was tempting, her bed was just a few metres from the foot of the stairs, she could just go for it. Reason won out in the end and she found herself inching down steps painfully slow as she grabbed onto a stone wall for support. About halfway down, she heard someone call out for her.

“Herald?” the voice questioned, deep with concern.

She squeezed her eyes tight, hoping that she hadn’t just heard the Commander calling her. He was the last person she wanted to see at the moment, especially considering her current inebriation.

This time the voice was closer, “Herald, are you alright?”

Her stomach dropped suddenly, realizing it was, in fact, him. Whispering in exasperation, she exhaled, “Festis bei umo canavarum…”

“I’m sorry?” The Commander returned quietly in confusion.

“You’re drunk.” Cassandra appeared, stating the obvious. Looking into their eyes, she scratched at her ear as if caught.

“I… yes.” Was all she could choke out of her tightening throat.

Cullen’s low spoken words offered her comfort, “Were I in your position, I would likely do the same.”

Directing a slight frown at the sudden tenderness from the Commander, Cassandra drew Lyrael away. “Still, there is a serious matter at hand, Herald.” The Seeker lead her down the stairs, and Lyrael vaguely registered that she was being chastised about her current condition. She didn’t care much, however. At this point, she was tired and no amount of mother-henning would make her feel guilty.

“Lady Cassandra, should we not give her time?” His concern lay bare in his eyes and the thought rose to Lyrael, _I wish I knew the name of their colour._ She had never seen anything to compare his warming gaze.

With a grunt, the Seeker returned, “You know that time is not something we have right now, Commander. Inform Solas, I’ll see to our Herald.”

><><><><><>< 

Propped up in a creaky cedar chair, Lyrael sips on the tea Cassandra has made for her. Rushed, the water was barely boiling when she added in the leaves, and the tea was pale of flavor and potency for it. Still, the warm liquid and prompting from the Seeker was sobering. Within a few minutes after passing the empty mug back to Cassandra, her thoughts were clear enough to uphold her end of conversation.

“Shall I explain it once more?” Her arms crossed over her chest.

“I am afraid that you will have to.” Admitted the elf, looking up at the still-armored woman.

“Ugh, very well.” Standing fully from where she had been leaning on the desk, she began pacing across the room, “There was a missive. The Crossroads, were Mother Giselle has been taking in wounded and aiding refugees, has been the new battleground for the rebels in the region. As we are looking to stem casualties as much as possible, we will be departing tomorrow morning at daybreak.” The entirety of the news delivered, she finally allowed herself to rest on the edge of the bed. Hands knitted together, she stared deep into the fireplace.

“I will prepare my things before turning in.” Lyrael managed, a mild hangover developing, “Are you alright? You seem… conflicted.”

 “Did I do the right thing?” she relented at last, “What I have set in motion here could destroy everything I have revered my whole life… one day, they may write about me as a traitor, a madwoman, a fool. And they may be right.”

Late at night after a bout of drinking was not the time Lyrael had hoped for a heart-to-heart, but the woman had done much to take care of her. It was not difficult to express her admiration, “You are a strong, discerning leader. No matter what the books will say, there was a decision to be made and you did what you thought was right.”

Lyrael’s words softened the woman’s face. “That is… kind of you to say. Especially considering how I misjudged you in the beginning. I thought the answer was before me, clear as day.”

“It was not as if you had no reason to suspect me.” She relented.

Quietly, Cassandra persisted, “Still, I cannot afford to be so careless again.”

For several moments, the wind blew stiffly about the cabin and the passage of time was marked only by the crackling pine logs in the fireplace. “It will come as no shock, I am sure, but I am not the best fighter.” Lyrael admitted at last.

“You do not need to worry.” Cassandra did not waste breath trying to deny Lyrael’s claim, but the usual bite was missing from the Seeker’s voice. “I will be at your side. I have witnessed the strength in your barriers, you possess strong magical capabilities. Once we return back to Haven, we will see about connecting you with some trainers.”

“Hmm.” Lyrael nodded in agreement.

“I will see myself out, it is late and there will be much to do in the morning.” Cassandra said, standing.

“Thank you for the tea.” Lyrael said to her back.

“Thank you for the company.” Cassandra answered, disappearing into the wintry night.

><><><><><>< 

Tension clutched her stomach and would not relent. She had slept deeply for a few hours, but pale fingers of light on the horizon woke her early. She lost no time readying herself. Donning a tight-woven light green traveling robe, the bottom hem ending around her knee, and leather leggings providing flexibility for riding and acting as a mid-grade level of protection. Finding some supplemental armor brought to her last night, undoubtedly by Cassandra, she buckled the hardened leather vest over her robe and laced up thick soled boots. The clothes felt odd on her. Boots too big, leather too tight; finding her staff propped in the corner, even the weight of the weapon didn’t feel right. With a gulp, she left behind the cabin and headed out to the agreed meeting point at the stables.

The smell of horse assailed her nostrils before she even entered the stables. Young stable-hands ran about chaotically, obviously the last to know of the hastened departure for the Hinterlands. Outside the stable, Varric sat on his saddled horse, dosing lightly and snoring soft snores when his horse adjusted from hoof to hoof.

Cassandra was already there as well and instructing workers all around her, tying up loose ends. “Good, you are here. Once we have you and Solas geared up and mounted, we will head out. I am sure that Leliana and Josephine will be able to send a group after us with any additional supplies we have forgotten.”

“Ah, alright.” Lyrael agreed absentmindedly. The response was enough for Cassandra as she returned inside the stables to continue orchestrating the stable-hands.

When Solas spoke behind her, she nearly jumped out of her skin, “The chosen of Andraste, a blessed hero sent to save us all.”

Seeing the smile on his face, she joined in with his banter, “Am I riding in on a shining steed?”

“I would have suggested a griffon, but sadly, they’re extinct. Joke as you will, posturing is necessary.” His smile faded as he moved from the shadow of the stable to get a clearer view of the Breach. “I’ve journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten. Every great war has its heroes. I’m just curious what kind you’ll be.”

“Since when did I become a hero?” She returned, serious.

“The moment you survived a walk in the Fade.” His blue-grey eyes searching her, making her uneasy.

The rhythmic trod of Cassandra’s horse caught both of their attention. Her mount was a breed above the Inquisition stock, moving intuitively with the small movements she made with her torso and hips. Jet black fur and long wavy mane made him a sight to be held. The plodding, rust coloured horses brought out for her and Solas made it obvious the black stallion was her own horse that she had brought with her to Haven.

“Solas, good of you to join us.” She snipped, plain that his tardiness was not overlooked.

Without a response, He jumped deftly upon his own beast.

Walking up to her horse, she closed her eyes and remembered back to when she was a child. There was a game the children used to play. Running with the Halla, each would take turns trying to jump up on a Halla’s back. The winner would be the one able to hold the trust of the beast the longest before getting kicked off. She wanted to be accepted among her peers, and when the beasts seemed naturally inclined to trust her, she spent much time with them. She spent most of that summer building up further rapport and learning to balance her feet on the most stable parts of their backs. Up close, the smell of leather saddles and horseflesh was not altogether dissimilar to the smell of walking alongside the Halla as they pulled the aravels throughout Fereldan’s forests.

Brushing her hands over the front flank of the beast to alert him to her presence, she notices him tense. He turns his head to look at her warily. _Something is not right._ Lyrael bends and checks his hooves, but it seems to agitate him all the more. Looking up, she sees Varric, Solas, and Cassandra all at the mouth of the trail heading out of Haven. Not wanting to hold them up any longer than she had, she plants a boot into the stirrup and lifts herself lightly into the saddle.

His ears immediately flatten. Snorting, tossing his head, he shifts his weight as if trying to loosen her seat on him. Holding on with her thighs, she leans forward and grabs a hunk of mane with her left hand. Anchor meeting flesh, the horse rears with a roar. Bucking forward and sideways, she feels her hold on him weaken. Throwing his back hips high with a squeal of rage, she feels her hands grasp air.

><><><><><>< 

**Cullen**

* * *

Cullen had not slept, working through the night to get a small troop together to scout the paths to the Hinterlands. If the continued updates of the fighting were any indication, he would have to prepare several more to brace their efforts. Walking through the stables, he ensured there were enough cart horses to transport the supplies the Herald’s group would need for their first exploration outside the valley. Leaving the dim, converted hay barn and marching into the first full rays of sunshine, he saw Cassandra bickering with Solas and Varric. _Things are off to a good start,_ he smirked, leaning against the entranceway. A blood-curdling scream of an angered horse brought him running towards the sound, eyes widened and hand on hilt.

“What in the Maker -?” His lips uttered in shock. The chestnut gelding was thrashing about wildly as the Herald clung on desperately.

Already two stable boys were trying to settle the outraged beast. The whites of the horse’s eyes gleamed intensely in the sun. Cullen saw Lyrael’s hand slip from his withers as the gelding readied himself for another bucking of his hindquarters – he lunged forward, placing himself dangerously close to thrashing hooves. As Lyrael was bucked off the spooked animal’s back, he caught her handily. Feeling the weight lifted from him, the horse jolted out of the stable hands’ control and galloped its way around the lake. Lyrael in his arms, and horse no longer a present threat, he allowed himself a minute to breathe.

“Maker’s breath!” he panted lightly, adrenaline high. She said nothing, but wrapped her arms tightly around him, drawing him close. Though he reasoned it was likely her just stabilizing herself, he was unable to prevent himself from getting flustered. He had carried her before, but she was not lucid; this time, as she lay trembling in his arms, the proximity seemed oddly intimate. “A-are you alright?” He managed at last, voice sounding more winded than it should have.

“I think so,” she frowned, taking stock of what had happened.

He could feel his face flushing an embarrassing shade. Inches from her, seeing the deeper lilac dancing in her irises, seeing the pale purple veins lacing her delicate neck, and feeling her own unsteady breaths made it hard for him to concentrate. In fact, being this close to any woman was enough to make him nervous, but this close to _her_ … _Andraste_ , he was a mess.

She seemed altogether untouched by their closeness, “I’m lucky you’re about.” She had the guile to smile that radiant grin at him. _How is she so composed?_ “Though I do fear that I am a bit heavy.”

“Er-uh…” He gently set her down on her feet. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, but decided to stare at the weathervane atop the stables.

“Thank you for being quick on your feet and catching me.” She acknowledged.

“N-not at all.” He smiled nervously, daring to meet her face.

“Uh-I… I have a rather odd question.” She blurted, apparently surprising herself as well. Nodding his approval, she continued her query with sincerity. “What colour are your eyes?”

“M-my eyes? I’m not sure what you –“ he returned, scratching at his blushing neck in uncertainty, “I honestly don’t know… brown?”

“Hmm, but not a deep brown. They’re warm.” She mused, studying them. “Ah! Oh, I’m sorry… this seems improper of me… They’re just pretty.”

“Herald, are you hurt?” Cassandra yelled, still yards away. As Lyrael ran to inform the Seeker of the unruly horse, Cullen was relieved to be out of the spotlight.

He made his way directly to his tent. Once inside the dark of its canvas, his crumbling mask disintegrated. Pulling off his gloves, he dropped himself heavily on his cot and began to message the bridge of his nose. _Blight take him, this was going to be a long Inquisition._


	4. Hither and Thither in the Hinterlands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a former Templar and Circle mage find themselves as Thedas' last bulwark from the Breach, will they be able to overcome their pasts to stitch up the sky? Join Lyrael Lavellan - an albino mage - as she transforms from bookish researcher into the Inquisitor with her Commander at her side.
> 
> This week finds the Commander contending against an Ambassador and a Spymaster, while the Herald remembers there is more to a mage than the Circle.

**Josephine**

* * *

Leaning back in her arm-chair, she jotted fastidious notes onto her clipboard. Cassandra had taken the Herald into the field over a fortnight ago, and it was Josephine’s job to keep her points of views salient through the war table meetings. After assembling a list pertinent to Cassandra – a rather short and to the point one at that – she set to digging through the more pressing letters, organizing them for the afternoon conference. Josephine knew they had to be discerning regarding the tasks they vested their interest. After all, it was only within the last few days that Haven soldiers and agents were finding themselves stabilized. Operating otherwise would be a mistake. Thankfully the elixir the Herald made before departing had saved many a man and woman from infection in the days after the Breach.

Amid the reports on camps the Herald had established in the Hinterlands, was a hastily written letter from Varric. Skimming his request, she clicked her tongue in annoyance with a  _tsk,_ and tossed it into a growing pile she was amassing for Lyrael’s attention. Problems with his book serial was something that could wait. Responding to Lyrael’s Clan, and gathering a deeper understanding of their hold, however, was more pressing.

Taking a break from the piles of parchment around her, she stared longingly at the ornate inlay on – of all things – her candle holder. It was a gift her sister gave to her when she had left Antiva. Though it had seen some scratching and scuffing, Josephine always kept it polished to a shine. In the grim, windowless office that she found herself passing her days, the glittering gold embellishments caught the candle’s flame and comforted her. Today proved to be especially brisk. Picking up the documents she readied for the meeting, she decided to adjourn to the war room early and warm by the fireplace. Apparently, she was not the only one with the idea.

“Oh, Leliana! A pleasure to find you here,” She greeted. Though there was much they had in common, and the pleasantries they exchanged were cordial, the Ambassador couldn’t help but feel a wall between them.

“Hmm, yes. Poor Schmooples II was shaking pitifully. Decided he deserved a good warming by the fire.” Leliana cooed, reaching down to pet the pink nug at her feet.

Walking to the other chair framing the hearth, Josephine sat herself gingerly in the seat and extended her open hand to the naked creature. “You really need to look into having sweaters made for him.” Schmooples II seemed to like the idea, and nuzzled her fingers with a reflective squeak.

“It would have to be in chartreuse – it has always been his colour.” Leliana laughed. Josephine felt a little of the barrier crumble away. In no time, they were prattling on about the latest of Orleasian fashion, and the most notable falls from graces in the Game. Conversation winding this way and that, and finally settled on their mutual assessments of the other advisors.

“The Divine’s soft spot for Cassandra is a testament to her enlightened view.” Josephine began, “Though she is _capable_ , she does lack a certain…”

“Subtlety? Yes. You’ll get used to her mannerisms with time. Still, she could learn more about life away from the sword.” Leliana agreed.

“And what of our Commander?” Josephine prompted. He had been a steadfast member and a capable leader, but she had played the Game long enough to know that there was something he was hiding. A man was allowed his secrets, but getting him all a-flutter was entertaining enough to find more fuel for the flame.

“Fereldan born, and Templar raised; he does exceedingly well despite both.” Leliana considered for a moment, as if debating if she’d dare cross a line. With a sly twitch of her lips: she dared. “Until he is around women, that is.”

“Oh? I had not noticed,” The Ambassador feigned.

It was all the prompting she needed, “Leave it to me. He wears a rather becoming rouge when topics centre overlong on the Herald.”

><><><><><>< 

Laying a fresh log over the fire, Cullen righted himself and eyed the nug – now snuggled down in Leliana’s hood – warily. Aware of his leering, she casually reached to a plate of refreshments and gifted Schmooples with a dried fruit.

Josephine suppressed her amusement at the exchange, “Shall we begin?”

“Indeed,” Ser Cullen settled himself, leaning over the map.

“Very well,” The Ambassador looked between her peers, “Leliana, you mentioned something one of your agents reported?”

“Yes, they uncovered some remaining ledgers and documents in the lower store rooms. At one point, there were cultists who used Haven as the base of their operations.” She informed.

“Hnnn,” the Commander reflected in suspicion, “This doesn’t bode well.”

“Do you think there is a risk of the Inquisition being delegitimized as just another cult in the hills?” Josephine asked, following his concern.

Leliana seemed less worried, “Not particularly. Thanks to our connection with the Divine and our immediate reaction to the Breach, I would guess we garner more weight than the previous occupants. Additionally, there may be a way we could use this to our advantage. Notes detail passages in the mountains they had used – if we search for them, we may find something of use. In any case, we should know of any paths in and out of the valley, lest we be taken by surprise.”

“I agree,” Commander Cullen seconded.

“Shall we leave the search to you and your agents?” Josephine endorsed, her hand poised and ready to update her letter to Cassandra to reflect their decisions.

“Certainly. Some of the writings describe some wards that will require finesse. I have a few agents in mind that could easily navigate such magics.” Lady Nightingale confirmed, moving a few cast-metal pieces into position on the map.

Taking a moment to act as scribe, her looping script moved across the page. Finishing the word she was writing, she brought forth some news of her own, “Moving on, a scout ‘discovered’ a letter from the Herald’s Clan two days’ past.”

“Discovered?” Leliana questioned, interest uncloaked.

Josephine assured, “In his words, he was hit in the saddle with the message fixed to the arrow.” Producing the note, she passed it around.

“Skittish messenger, eh?” Cullen joked, skimming the message.

“Reasonably cautious, I’d say.” Leliana returned.

“Regardless, I thought we had established she was not well connected with Clan Lavellan?” the Ambassador examined, hoping their sources had not lead them astray. The last thing they needed was a rogue spy.

“That is what I knew as well.” Leliana said, a wrinkle between her brows.

“Should we wait to respond once she has returned? It is her Clan, after all, no matter the details.” Cullen offered as he and Josephine met Leliana’s gaze, all understanding the Spymaster would be investigating.

Scratching ink into parchment once more, “Time is not something we have much of. I will send a carefully worded letter regarding some of the…  _particulars_  of her position among us. Should she choose, she may send her own message along once she is back in Haven. Interestingly enough, there was another letter addressed to the Herald. This one: and invitation.”

Amused, Leliana’s earlier levity returned, “Oh? She  _is_  proving quite an item.”

Humming a confirmation, she continued “From a Vivienne de Fer requesting her attendance to a salon held in a month‘s time at the Chateau of Duke Bastien de Ghislain.”

“Already in the clutches of the Grand Game, it seems.” The soldier lamented with jocularity; he may have been joking, but the sentiment was real.

“As are we all.” Leliana intoned, haughty.

Observing a protest already forming on his lips, the Ambassador tried to keep them focused, “Let us not derail. Leliana, what do you know of her?”

Mind like a steel trap, Leliana was not much for notes. She felt they encouraged forgetfulness, and disliked how they were prone victimization from prying eyes. “Born in Wycome, her parents: Rivainian merchants, a mage prodigy at a young age, Court Enchanter to Empress Celene, and a Circle Loyalist. Though always looking for further come-uppance, we would be wise to honor her request and hear what she has to say.”

“According to some of what Cassandra has reported of Mother Giselle’s advice, the Herald will likely be traveling near the Duke’s estate in any case. Let me see…” Josephine took a moment to flip through some pages lain on the war table, “Otherwise, my work the last few days has been pacifying an Orleasian noble claiming ownership of Haven, and compiling a list of people likely to assist in our efforts.”

“Better you seeing to those details than me.” Cullen huffed, still a bit sour.

Josephine didn’t give in to his grumblings, “Yes, well. We each have our roles. Speaking of, what concerns do you bring?”

In response, he straightened himself and rattled off the report he had compiled since their last meeting, “In respects to the current venture in the Hinterlands, reports both positive and negative have come from my ranks. As we all know, the Crossroads have been reclaimed and are now acting as a nexus of refugees. Varric reports there are more mouths to feed than hunters willing to risk flora, fauna, and rebels. With consent, I would much like to send a detail to hunt food for the people. Such an operation would increase our presence, and likely dissuade the overly bold from trying a resurgence on the Crossroads.”

“We have coin enough,” the Antivan acknowledged.

“And it would double as a recruiting effort” the Nightingale concurred.

“My thoughts exactly.” Expecting him to carry on, the women waited expectantly. Cullen was taking so long to review his own notes, Josephine guessed he had been busy and had to sacrifice penmanship in his haste. “Ah, yes. Watchtowers have been completed, just sent the note to the Herald confirming such and – “

“Along with more socks?” the Spymaster prodded.

Dropping the page he had been reading with a stunned look splayed over his face, “I-I beg pardon?”

“Socks? Why would –“ Josephine didn’t quite follow. She was obviously in the dark to something Leliana had discovered.

Pulling the nug out of her hood, Schmooples settled back into his dozing as she cradled him in her arms. The nonchalance in her actions at odds with her candidness, “It must be a folksy Fereldan thing… wooing with knitted garments.”

Leliana had been right, he wore the discomfort exceptionally. There was something about seeing a decorated officer – a man among men – stirred up by a creature as waifish as Lyrael. “I check every letter and shipment in and out, remember? Oh Josie, you should have seen the spring in his step after reading her note of appreciation.”

“I-I uh… I thought it was a practical concern.” Cullen scratched at his neck.

“She should feel lucky she has a guardian.” Mocked Leliana, “especially from blisters.”

Josephine, though enjoying the moment, began to feel bad for the Commander. “Speaking of the Herald, what exactly happened with her mount upon departure?”

Slipping back into a role he was more comfortable with, he straightened his shoulders, “The damn creature spooked, threw her and cantered off to Maker-knows-where.”

“Afterwards, I heard that two more horses reacted similarly. I had a few researchers look into it. Many of our horses are throwing riders or refusing commands if ridden too close to the rifts. Perhaps that mark on her hand is to blame? There is lore that an intrinsic reason Elves are famed to ride Harts is due to their sensitivity to the Fade; where other beast balk, they navigate with strength.” The Spymaster provided. With reports of Rifts coming in from all corners of Thedas, Josephine made a silent prayer for some sort of solution. The Herald would be facing enough troubles as it were, she didn’t need to fight her mount too.

“When Dennet arrives, I had planned on talking to him about the difficulty she has been having. If the research is true, would that we could obtain a Hart and see for ourselves.” The Commander made himself some notes with a thin charcoal stick on a scrap of paper.

“I am sure between Dennet’s resources and your troops, you will be able to track one down.” Josephine assured, leaving the matter to his attention. Unable to stop herself, she decided to end the meeting with one last chaff, “in any case, you must be tired.”

“Oh?” Cullen fell for her bait, rolling up his parchments and slipping the charcoal back into a pocket.

She allowed herself a light laugh, “From all your mothering over our Herald!” He dropped a few rolls of papers on the floor, cursing quietly. She would never tire of his over-reactions. If one were less familiar with the man, his actions may have passed as nothing more than clumsiness. As it were, she could see the veneer of the weathered soldier crack here and there to show something underneath. A Cullen too honest for his own good. 

“She  _is_ accident prone,” he relented with a half-hearted smile, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s almost time for the evening drill.” Door closing roughly behind him in his rush to depart their company, Josie and Leliana broke out in a giggle. They grew closer over the coming weeks through a silent pact to keep their Commander a dither.

><><><><><>< 

**Lyrael**

* * *

Elaina was not a woman of many words. From her sun-leathered face to her dirt-caked hands, she was a woman of action. The crunching of Lyraels boots as she walked into the garden sent little clouds of dirt behind her. She pulled a medallion out of her satchel, and presented it as a token. It had belonged to demon who had corrupted the pack, “You won’t be troubled with those wolves any longer. Send your farmer’s back to the fields. They will find them safe.”

The Horse-Master’s wife stood, wiping the sweat off of her brow with the back of a tanned hand. Taking the medallion, she gave a quiet approval, “That’s good to hear. I suspect you will want to talk to my man now about his horses.”

Not waiting for Lyrael’s reply, she grabbed a large basket of the recently harvested vegetables and marched into the house. Motioning for Cassandra to join from where she had been resting in the shade of a tree, she entered the dwelling with the warrior at her back. The bright of day rendered her eyes nigh useless as they waited for Dennet to appear. A raucous guffaw erupted outside from Varric, who acted as every place he sat was home. Cassandra’s quiet snort of disgust caused the elf’s lips to turn upwards into a smile. The group had grown much with each other in the past days.

His wife was steadily chopping cabbage for a stew when he tromped down the stairs. “Elaina says you got rid of those demon-cursed wolves. Should be safer for our farmers now. You’ve more than held up your end of our bargain, Inquisition. You’ll have my whole stable, and good hands to go with it per our agreement. Until then,  _you_ deserve something better than whatever knock-kneed plow nag they gave you. I have a chestnut in the stables; pure-bread Fereldan Forder. If you come with me, I’ll ready him for you.”

Her heart thumped loudly in her chest, at this point she couldn’t refuse his offer in fear of souring their agreement. Still, she wasn’t looking forward to being thrown off the back of yet another horse. Cassandra clapped a gauntlet-heavy hand on her shoulder in support as they exited the house. Dennet called out to his daughter, Seanna, as they walked towards the stables. By the time they had reached her, she had the chestnut stallion out of his stall and was brushing him down for his riding tack.

Patting his side with a thump, Seanna took pride in detailing some of his pedigree, “Of course ol’ Feather here is a solid boy. Don’t let his stocky body fool you – he can leap as soon as blink over any obstacles you’ll face. Hence his nickname, as he’s light as a feather! I even had to use him once or twice lately to fend off some roaming rebel mages. They got the point soon enough.”

 _Great,_ Lyrael’s dread rose as a knot in her throat,  _a jumping horse._

While Seanna was placing a blanket and saddle on Feather, she chatted away to Cassandra about her own horse. The Herald noticed Solas talking quietly to the Horse-Master, when Seanna announced the horse was ready. With a nervous gulp, she neared Feather and let him sniff her. His ears twitched uncertainly, but he did not react strongly to her – at least in comparison to the Inquisition stock. Closing her hand tightly around her mark, she placed a foot on a rung in the fence he was tied to, and deftly swung to a seat.

Her rear planted fully on him, his ears flick back. Obviously annoyed, he pawed restlessly at the ground with short huffs of displeasure. Lyrael exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding,  _could be worse._ Reins loose in her hand, she let him drift about the field, letting him get used to her weight. She only gripped him with her knees to steady her balance when he’d test her. And test her he did. He slipped variably from an ambling pace to a rough, bouncy trot to a stilted halt. Eventually, though casting his tail in irritation from time to time, he came to ignore her presence.

Gazing around, she saw that he had taken her quite a pace away from where the rest of her party stood with the Master. She drew her left hand to her chest, as she had learnt early on that her anchor was a particularly vexing presence on horseflesh, and directed Feather back to the stables. At least, that was what she was wanting to do. She kicked at his haunches lightly, in efforts to spur him. With a sulky toss of his mane, he looked back at her. His defiance made it clear that – while he hadn’t tossed her off – he was in no mood to deal with her antics. A long whistle from Master Dennet was motivation enough, and with a steady gait, Feather trotted himself back.

“At least you didn’t eat dirt.” He indicated, taking Feather by the halter as Lyrael landed lightly beside him. Sniffing Dennet affectionately with soft, sleepy eyes, it was as if he was a completely different horse. “I see what Solas is talking about now. You’re no shit rider, but something about you has these animals unnerved. Take him for now. He will at least want to keep abreast with the other horses when you travel. Just means you’ll have to trust others to guide him for you.” He handed her back the lead.

She liked him. From his straightforward speech to his firm composure, she could tell he wouldn’t try to pull the wool over her eyes. “What of you? The Inquisition could use you, Master Dennet.”

“Well, true enough you’ve cleaned the area, and I can’t say I am not tempted…” He scratched at his beard and glanced over at the farmhouse, “Still… it feels wrong to abandon my land and go play Horse-Master again.”

Cassandra came forward, “Are you Andrastian? This is a matter of faith. The Maker would want the best to join us.”

“I’ve heard some things about you lot. Can’t say I’m not interested in what it all means.” The poor man seemed truly conflicted.

“Pa, Mum can order the farmers and I’m not a child anymore. We can look to ourselves.” Seanna reasoned, “You live for your horses. Pick up your gear, and go do what you love.”

He hugged her tight and blinked the mist from his eyes. “All right, Inquisition. I’ll look to your horses myself. Never let it be said that Redcliffe gave less than the best.”

><><><><><>< 

Clenching her fist, her body shook in tension as the rift collapsed upon itself. Wiping the blood from her nose onto her sleeve with a sniff, she kept her back to the group. She was getting better and better at closing the tears, but she was frustrated with how she couldn’t prevent her nose from bleeding each time. Though she hid how it made her feel feint, she knew that she slowed their progress.

Satisfied she was able to wipe off as much evidence as possible from her face, she turned back to see Cassandra glowering at where the demons had fallen. “Honestly, that Speaker Anais is an idiot. Imagine, people willingly living near a rift… in any case, if they wanted a sign, they got one.” She spat in distaste.

Solas walked past Cassandra and lounged on the stone-hewn stairs, “These people look for comfort. Perhaps now they will see hope, and it will spur them into fighting, rather than resigning to their fates.”

She relented, a sigh releasing some of the anger out of her voice, “I will go and talk with the speaker, at the very least these people can begin to spread the word of the Inquisition.” The metal on her boots rang dully with each step up the stairs.

Lyrael searched the ground for her staff. The damn thing had been flung from her hands when she was overtaken by one of the lesser terror demons. They had a nasty habit of disappearing and leaping upon you when you least expected it. A coughed “ _ahem”_ alerted her to Varric’s presence.

“Looking for this, Vi?” He offered up her staff, “Would be a shame to lose out here, though you seem to cast just as well without it.”

Solas interjected at that, “That is because she does not utilize targeted spells. She weaves the magic around her in barriers or blasts of disorientation. General defensive tactics.”

She ducked her head at that, there was something more behind his words. “The spells have served me well enough.”

“Yes. As a _Circle_  mage. But as a Herald of Andraste? The demons will need more than petty evasion tactics.” Solas spoke with an almost fatherly tone, yet what he said still bit.

“Go easy on her. It’s not like she asked for this.” Varric laughed, trying to lighten the situation and soften the blow.

“True enough. It does not change the fact that she is here, and there may come a time when she will not have Cassandra’s shield or your crossbow. That mark is a beacon for demons, and she needs to prepare for what that entails.” He continued, using his staff to rise off the stairs.

With a sigh, Lyrael had to agree, “It has been some time since I have cast offensively, and this is something I must remedy. Ma serannas, Hahren. I will think over your words.” His brow twitched at the presence of Elvish rolling off of her tongue, but said nothing more.

After Cassandra had cowed the Speaker into working for the Inquisition, Lyrael took the time to deliver news among the cultist who had lost loved ones in the fighting. Sun falling low on the horizon, Lyrael advised the Anais to send regular reports to Leliana. As this was their last full day in the Hinterlands, the group mounted up to return to camp and prepare for the march back to Haven. They would spend the evening putting quill to paper to chronicle the last of their efforts in the area, and rising early to pack. Trekking back to their tents, Feather begrudgingly trundled along behind the tails of the other horses. Despite herself, Lyrael’s head felt heavy with fatigue. At one point, she even heard the beginnings of a snore coming from herself – until the sting of the horse’s tail lashed across her face.

“Can’t catch a break, can ya kid?” Varric laughed sympathetically.

She rubbed her cheek and gave him a half-hearted smile, “Not as of late, it seems.”

He reined his horse in to keep pace with hers, “You  _are_  handling it exceptionally well. If that thing was on me I’d – “

“Be more of a blithering idiot than you already are?” Cassandra interjected spitefully from ahead.

Used to such interruptions, Varric theatrically returned, “Easy now, words can hurt. But you aren’t wrong. Maker – I’d be a mess. All that responsibility riding on your shoulders…”

“Thanks.” The sarcasm pooled in Lyrael’s mouth, revealing some of her insecurities, “As if I hadn’t already felt the crushing weight of responsibility.”

“Hey now, don’t let that be what you take away from all this. You aren’t alone, as much as it may seem, all you have to do is ask. We’re here for you.” He patted Bianca for emphasis.

With a scoff, the Seeker mocked his support, “Rest easy knowing that at least  _I_ am. This  _Dwarf_  does not have be most reliable record.”

His smile dropped a bit, “Maybe towards those ruining books with blades, but to friends… well, I’d do about anything.”

Cassandra accused, “Such as hiding them away from those who need help bringing order back to the world?”

He paused just long enough to have her turn around, curious, and gifted her a mischievous wink that antagonized an ‘Ugh’, and the spurring on of her horse.

“Does… does that mean we are friends?” the Elf enquired.

Varric sat tall in his saddle, throwing an arm wide in emphasis, “Of course! I don’t know if it’s the writer in me dangerously drawn to chronicling hopeless causes or – “

“No, that is definitely it.” Solas ribbed, seemingly taking Cassandra’s place in the evening banter.

“Bah! And now you start. You get the gist, Violet. Compared to these two nug herders, we are the only voice of reason Thedas has at its disposal.” With a light chuckle between her and the dwarf, a silence blanketed comfortably over the group.

><><><><><>< 

Arriving back at their campsite, they each took off to settle into their respective domestic ministrations. Cassandra waved a weary hand at the messenger, shooing them back to their posts. She would sit and write her own reports by the fire before further reminder of how much was left ahead. Heading to the tent she and the Herald shared, she removes her heavier armor, laying them neatly near the entrance to the canvas tent. Down to her leathers, the encroaching night air sent a chill through her shoulders as she used a barrel as a desk. Her mind still full of the day’s labours, she devoted herself to writing up reports before any of the details were blurred.

Varric chatted away with a soldier he had become amicable with, and moved a heavy pot of lentil and broth over the fire. Tendrils of the soup rose slowly as he entertained himself by telling tall tales to a few wide-eyed recruits that would be travelling back to Haven with them. Across the camp, far away from the glow of the camp’s fire, Solas found rest on a crate. Where he folded his legs beneath himself, and began to meditate.

Soon, the sun made it’s final, fiery protest as it descended below the tree-line. Lyrael took the chance to pull out a leather-bound journal, along with some tomes and writing implements. She had been trying to chronicle all of her experiences, whether it was to document for posterity or prevent herself from being overwhelmed by it all, she was not sure. Scratching feverishly before there was no light left but the fire, she was utterly surprised to hear a voice from over her shoulder.

“Hmm, you should add how the mark changes shades of green depending on how far away you are from a rift.” Solas peered academically.

She welcomed his intrusion into her note taking, “Ah, does it? That was something I wasn’t quite sure how to explain. Been mulling it over the last few days. It brings up some things I had been wanting to talk to you about.”

“Indeed.” He said, ready to receive her concerns.

“I have been doing research,” she flipped through a tome for emphasis, “but since Thedas has not seen such magics in recorded times, I have found only vague interpretations. I was wondering, do you know of any side-effects of getting too close to Fade? As in, how it could  _change_ a person?”

He sat himself beside her, reviewing some of what she had written briefly, “Well, the Veil did not used to be as prevalent as it is now. Elves have a connection to the Fade that is unlike many beings, so it is not completely shocking to find that you have noticed differences since your time there.”

“Hmm,” she hummed neutrally, taking back her journal and writing what he had said.

He was quiet for a few moments, allowing her time to explore a bit of what he had revealed. Finally, he explored further, “Out of curiosity, what have you noticed?”

“A large gap in my memory is one thing.” She responded readily, “I cannot remember even travelling to the Conclave, much less the day of the explosion.”

He nodded at that, not particularly surprised, “It is stressing on the physical body when pulled through the Veil. Perhaps some memory loss has occurred from such stress. I enter the Fade in dreams often enough, but dreams act as a sort of portal. It’s a more natural crossing.”

Nervously, she continued, “There is something else.”

“Oh?” The campfire highlighting the interest in his face.

Only clouds near the horizon still tinted by the setting sun, she stacked her books absentmindedly, “I… I used to be colourblind.”

He searched her with renewed investment, and kept his voice even as he prompted her, “And now?”

She wrapped her arms around herself. Concentrating on the growing appearance of stars above, she whispered an admission, “I am awash in colour I am unable to even name. It is blaring. Loud. Assailing to the eyes. And the most enthralling experience I could ever imagine.”

He frowned, “Tis puzzling to be sure. You would do well to keep up your notes.” Placing a hand delicately on her shoulder to gain her full attention, he promised, “I will search as well. If I should find something more, I will let you know.”

“Oh, come on. It’s no fun eavesdropping if you are going to speak Elvish.” Varric whined jokingly, stacking his now empty bowl with the others as he sauntered towards them. The genuine surprise on her face was not lost on him, “So you didn’t know?”

She looked from Varric to Solas and back again. They shared a scheming look with one another before Solas provided clarity, “It is not uncommon for and Elf to respond in kind to the presence of their language. Reared among the Dalish provided you with more exposure than most. Even still, your pronunciation is quite good.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that.” Varric dismissed, “All I know is how funny it is to watch you two speaking innocently back and forth while Lady Seeker gets her bloomers in a twist. I think she suspects you are plotting something.”

An embarrassed smile spread across her face. Though she was unaware of her own quirk, she was delighted to find them including her in their raillery. The remainder of the night was spent with laughter and more jokes at each other’s expense, though Cassandra must have heard the raucous noise they were creating, she never re-appeared. A few hours after the stars began to twinkle at their brightest, grey clouds drifted in carrying a thick smell of rain. Taking it as a sign to retire, Lyrael left them and slipped into the tent. Body aching from the miles they had travelled in recent weeks, she tossed and turned until she was lulled asleep by the gentle song of the Seeker’s snores.

><><><><><>< 

A day’s ride from the valley found the companions pensive and ready for rest. Even Cassandra was seen shifting restlessly in her saddle from time to time. She had confided in Lyrael that she had succeeded the Seeker’s expectations while in the Hinterlands. Her encouragement did much to comfort Lyrael, as she had been doubting her place in the Inquisition since her conversation with Solas. True enough, if it weren’t for her mark, she wouldn’t even be here… and still… part of her was glad she was.

Lyrael had come to enjoy the steady and predictable nature characteristic of Cassandra. Many a night in the Hinterlands, they confided in one another about their perceptions of the dealings in the area. How they had found strong, strange strains of Lyrium among some of the Templar camps they investigated. She noted how their quality was inconsistent and worryingly repugnant. Enough to be dangerous after long periods of exposure - much less for human consumption. They had questioned a few soldiers that had yielded when clearing out a particularly large encampment; those with clarity of mind had indicated that since they were not able to access Chantry sources, they were desperate enough to jump on any source they could secure, and hang the risk.  When Cassandra had discussed some of the extreme side effects Lyrium withdraw had on the body, the Herald recalled an instance from when she lived in the Circle. A young recruit that had been caught sleeping on duty was denied his weekly source of Lyrium. She had never seen a more piteous and violent reaction develop so quickly. She remembered volunteering to stay by his side and casting calming spells over his weakened frame; how she mopped his brow and pulled upon the Fade to gently cool the air around him. Making sure to slip quietly out of his quarters after she had done what she could, for fear the Knight-Captain would learn of her efforts and punish him all the more. Cassandra was relieved to hear she was not a mage blinded by the plights of fellow mages. Indeed, they agreed the current administration within the Chantry and the Circle left many broken and few protected. This Inquisition was opportunity to do more than just heal the sky.

Her thoughts were revolving cyclically around the events of the past few months when a bloodcurdling scream came from the thick brush to her right. Though roving bands taking advantage of lay-folk had become an expected presence, this stretch of road had been among the first secured by Cullen's troops. None among the group had anticipated an attack, and the four of them found themselves quickly over-taken. Levying her weight against her destrier, Cassandra handily cleaved through the helmet of an overly bold warrior. Before she could blink, a large highwayman wielding a broad shield charged headlong into her stallion. The Seeker was flung – head and shoulders first – into a craggy boulder, where she lay stunned. Quick to act, Varric vaulted down off his own horse and stood protectively over the Seeker, loosing bolts at a pair of archers at the fringe of the tree-line. Lyrael's own knee-jerk reaction was to weave a protective spell around them, and angle Feather out of the way. For once, he was more than happy to comply. 

Jumping to stand on the back of his horse, Solas spun his staff gracefully in his hands. He summoned strength from the Fade and crushed a boulder into the breastplate of a dagger-wielding rogue attempting to take him from behind. One bare foot planted on the croup of the horse and the other propped on the saddle, the apostate's forceful display gained the attention of the highwayman. Deflecting the bursts of fire that Solas fired rapidly upon him, the warrior threw his broadsword at the tendons in his horse’s hocks. The forceful sweep of his sword produced scream of pain from the animal, as its massive bulk collapsed.

 _Blight take me, move!_  Lyrael willed her frozen self.

 Solas was casting barriers to cover him as he struggled to free his leg from underneath the horse. 

“This doesn’t look good Vi!” Varric yelled over the eruptions of agony and fear from the felled beast.

_No time._

_No time to think or breathe._

Her gaze flicked wildly around her, gripping as tightly as she could with her knees to stay on the frantic beast beneath her. Varric fell one archer, and finally freeing himself, Solas sent an immolate spell to arrest the remaining archer.

_Just the warrior left._

Ignoring Solas where he lay in the grass, the highwayman shoved Varric roughly out of the way, and raised his sword over Cassandra’s unconscious body.

_I will not allow it!_

A thunderous roar echoed around them, and a bolt of explosive lightening erupted from Lyrael’s staff. Unsuspecting of a rear attack, he took the full brunt of the bolt through his back, and his arm froze mid-air. She sent two more shots of lightening to accompany the first. Neither were as powerful, but the combined assault dropped him. His shield clattered noisily next to Cassandra. Staggering, he cast his sword in a laboured arc behind him. Off-balance and dying, the warrior fell unto his back where his rattling breaths grew increasingly infrequent.

Heavy, bursting breaths heaved through Lyrael – adrenaline coursing, numbing. She slid fumbling from the horse, who took the chance to bolt down the trail, and rushed to the Seeker’s side. Removing the warrior's helmet, she explored the extent of her injuries. Though bruised and dazed, Cassandra was largely unhurt. She would need a few days of rest, but the fall did not cause any life-threatening ails. Her dark eyes fluttered almost drowsily as Lyrael eased her into a sitting position.

Cursing from a nearby bush meant Varric was unharmed, and further roused the Seeker, “Shut it,  _dwarf.”_

Pushing through the bracken and pulling leaves from the folds in his clothes, “Not everyone gets the luxury of sleeping through an ambush!”

Lyrael heard the lethargic growl growing in the Seeker's chest, and she left them to their bickering. Remembering how Solas was caught beneath the horse. She jogged to where he had freed himself. He was already assessing the damage to his own leg when she walked up. 

“My knee was sprained, but I count myself lucky that nothing was broken.” He winced, applying pressure here and there to test the limits.

She knelt to do what little healing she could to prepare him for the remaining stretch back to Haven. As she flexed open her hands over his knee, she gestured, “May I?”

He inclined his head in admission, as they both placed their hands over his leg. After a few minutes of chanting, he was able to bend his knee enough to ensure he would be able to return to a saddle. Still, Lyrael wrapped his leg tightly to keep the swelling down, as she knew that it would swell from being dangled while riding.

They took an hour to break for lunch, and let Cassandra and Solas have time to prepare for a travel. Just as they were wrapping up the remains of a loaf of bread, the recruits they had amassed for the Commander arrived trundling along beside a supplies cart. After updating them on the impromptu attack, the lieutenant decided to travel the remaining stretch alongside them. Pulling out the remaining raven from the supplies cart, Varric took a moment to jot down notes of what had happened to send word ahead. All the while Lyrael and Cassandra secured replacement horses. Their pace would be slower to keep in time with the marching soldiers, and Lyrael resigned herself to walk alongside them, as the only horse that would even let her touch him had disappeared into the dusty distance.

It felt good to stretch her legs. To her surprise, many of the young men and women she walked beside chatted with her openly. She had come used to avoidance on principle. Not that she could or would blame them. Take your pick: she was a mage, an elf, and the mark made indisputable evidence that she was a walker of the Fade. Any one of those could be encouragement enough for a person to give her wide berth. But here, among the recruits, she was the Herald.

The awe that sparkled in their eye was unnerving, but within a few minutes of talking with them the nervousness in the air dissolved, and she found herself enjoying the conversation. Soon she was surrounded by a patrol of twenty recruits chatting amicably with her. She took the chance to catch up on the various gossips and rumours that filtered through, taking note on possible leads for investigation regarding some, and gaining insight on the general perceptions of the people in others.

Eventually, the air became tense once more, “Alright you lot,” she began with a smile, hoping to dispel some of their apprehension, “You’ve asked be about everything from the Fade to the mark on my hand to the point in my ears. What has you all a-jumble now?”

Many a nervous smile and the titter of anxious laughter rippled around her. It seemed that no one would answer, until a farmhand-turned-soldier spoke up in his rustic accent, “Cannae speak for none but muh’self, but… been wond’ring wha kinda man we’ll be working under.” His admission was seconded by several around him, and the group relaxed some.

“Oh? The Commander?” she responded, surprised they would be nervous to ask something so simple. Taking a few minutes to consider how to respond, she realized how very little she knew of the man. She could talk about his loyalty, and his dedication to the troops in his care. He was often, a very by-the-books man. He drew from his experiences and his ideals to propel him into action. And yet, she thought with a bit of heat blossoming across her face, there was an attentive and kind nature to him as well. She shook her head, not wanting to explore that at the present and settled on her first evaluations of him.

She grew serious and the chattering around her stilled, “Commander Cullen is a man any person can be proud to serve alongside. He knows better than most what we face, and you all will come to learn how much of an advocate a commander is supposed to be for their soldiers.” Lyrael said at last. Their silence came as unreadable to her, so she added with emphasis, “I trust him with my life.”

An older man, whom had been resisting the very Templars he used to serve, spoke up “If he’s good enough for the Herald to trust, he is good enough for me. What say you?” he challenged with a growl.

A loud, triumphant call broke out around her. They may be bringing in a largely green bunch of men and women, but they had heart. If they were able to gather in other regions as they had in the Hinterlands, Cullen would soon be very busy.

She felt light when the lamps of Haven twinkled into view. In large, she was happy that she would be sleeping in a secure bed, but a growing part of her shivered in anticipation. She had been searching for the right words to thank the Commander for his support over the last few weeks. With a tired shrug, she decided to wing it as she always did, and tried to convince herself the stutter in her chest was merely from exhaustion – and not something more.


	5. Ain't No Rest for a Seeker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a former Templar and Circle mage find themselves as Thedas' last bulwark from the Breach, will they be able to overcome their pasts to stitch up the sky? Join Lyrael Lavellan - an albino mage - as she transforms from bookish researcher into the Inquisitor with her Commander at her side.
> 
> In this chapter, we gain a glimpse into how Cassandra deals with forced bed-rest from the Herald, and how Lyrael de-compresses from her travels.

 

**Cullen**

* * *

“Commander!” called a reedy voice just outside his tent.  
Waking with a start, he lurched upright. His heart pulsed in alarm. Something lay there, at the edge of his mind. ‘ _What was I dreaming?_ ’ He searched shadows, but found himself grasping at fog. Wiping the sheen of sweat off of his brow, breaths came ragged from his chest.  
“C-Com-mmander?” The messenger’s voice trembled in the frigid, pre-dawn frost. With a huff, he cast aside his blanket and rose to a seat on the edge of his cot. Limbs like lead, he lethargically pulled his leathers over his tunic and stepped into his boots.  
“A moment.” He returned, rubbing a calloused hand down his face. Shuffling to lift the tent flap, he grumbled instructions for the scout to report as he watched his breath mist and cloud around the scout.  
Thrusting a scroll out, the messenger wasted no time, “There was a raven. Leliana said for you to review it so it can be discussed at the scheduled meeting.”  
The Commander grunted, “I appreciate it. Dismissed.” He took the parchment and let the tent close with a whap.  
He tossed the rolled paper unto on his desk, and lit a lamp. Casting a longing look over his now illuminated bed, he considered nestling amongst his blankets and sleeping off the weariness covering his eyes. A vague feeling of dread made him search once more for any thread of his dreams. A shiver travelled through his shoulders, and something inside hinted that whatever he had awoke from was not altogether pleasant. He stopped searching.  
In any case, he considered, the message must have been important to warrant Leliana sending one of her agents to wake him. With bleary-eyed resolve, he took a washcloth and dipped it in a basin of ice-cold water. The brisk wash did much to remove the remaining haze of sleep. Seated at his worn desk, he unrolled the parchment:

  
_Nightingale, Ruffles, and Curly;_

“Maker,” he breathed with a shake of his head. He was not looking forward to seeing Varric’s return so soon. He started again:

_Nightingale, Ruffles, and Curly;_

_Attacked en route to Haven._  
_Good job making the roads safe!_  
_I’m fine, thanks for asking._  
_The Seeker is a bit concussed._  
_Chuckles has a sprained knee._  
_Violet saved our asses._  
_Will be arriving within the day with new recruits._  
_Dennet will precede us._

_V. Tethras_

_P.S. You owe Vi a pint._

Letting the paper drop to the wooden desk, he pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.  
Standing abruptly, he upset his chair as he turned to a map lain out on a seldom-used chess table. He picked up a queen and a knight, placing them on the road outside Haven. Digging through the box of pieces, he located a few pawns. He spent well over an hour placing them and moving them to reflect his considerations. Eventually, he found a regiment of patrols to his favour, and he inscribed them on a scrap of parchment with a thin stick of charcoal. It had been a mistake to let details so close to Haven become lax. He had counted on it taking longer for marauders to set in, but his mistake had put the Herald at risk. Sullenly, he returned the chess figures one by one back into storage, pausing a moment when he realized that he had used the queen for Lavellan. With grim realization, it seemed fitting – she would likely be sent thither and yon in the coming months to amass necessary forces, as the Inquisition inched square by square like the proverbial king.  
His plans helped to settle some of his hurt pride from Varric’s note, and made him feel empowered to approach the rest of his reports with his usual fervor. By the time he leaned back in his chair to take a break, the sun had broken past the horizon. Briefly, he felt guilty he had not been there to rouse the men for the morning exercises, but thanks to his diligent lieutenants, his troops were training even in his absence. Standing from his papers, he felt the stiffness his hours hunched over the desk had awarded him, and he decided to limber himself by taking a stroll amongst the ranks.  
Nods from a captain and the cadence of metal meeting metal met him with comforting familiarity. He began most of his mornings to such a song. Unable to remember the last time he had actively worked with them, he took up his own shield and gathered recruits to lightly spar. It was always good to show off a bit for the men, and their blocking techniques still left much to be desired. Things were tense at first. Their blades merely glancing off his shield – afraid to actually hit at their Commander – but after a few assertive blocks that sent men stumbling back, he saw them grip their shields with purpose and set into training in earnestness.  
He worked with them for much of the morning and by the time the sun was high in the sky, he had regained much of his confidence. Shoulders lighter than before, he returned his weapons to his tent, and squared away some last-minute concerns amongst the ranks. As there was less than an hour until the meeting, Cullen decided to take an early walk to the Chantry. Between the haunting glimpses of dreams that he was able to recall and the letter Leliana’s agent had delivered, he needed comfort that only the Chant of Light would provide.

><><><><><><

The meeting drug on for an age. He could feel his attention waning, but a part of him didn’t care. At this point, their little Inquisition had to curry favours from devout Andrasian nobles to finance their efforts and legitimize themselves. _Maker’s grace_ , he groaned inwardly, _if this meeting is just about whose toes we may or may not have stepped on, let me get back to training!_  
“And I still think he ought to use his smallclothes as the banner of his troops.” The Spymaster’s lilting voice chimed, pulling him jarringly back to the war room.  
“W-what?!” he snapped in confusion.  
It was all the encouragement she needed. “You seemed to be in your own world. The notion to postpone the meeting was agreed upon ages ago. “  
“Ever since, we’ve been betting back and forth as to what would collect your attention once more.” Lady Montilyet continued, only dancing eyes betraying her contained amusement.  
“Seems nigh-nudity wins.” Leliana affirmed with finality.  
“You both plan on goading me every time the chance arises?” He fussed.  
“Depends,” Josephine’s eyes sharpened, “Do you plan on day-dreaming through all our meetings?”  
He relented with a sigh, knowing she was right. Shifting from foot to foot, he tried to return to their meeting, “Ah… did you say we were delaying the meeting?”  
“I did,” returned Leliana.  
“Hmm,” he intoned in a way that he hoped was reflective. Apologetically, he admitted his ignorance, “And… why is that, exactly?”  
Showing his efforts to reconcile were not unnoticed, Josephine informed him with patience, “The Herald – along with new recruits for you – arrived safely within Haven’s walls briefly before our meeting. Lyrael came by with a short report and informed me that Cassandra was on strict bed-rest until morn. Unless there is something pressing you wish to discuss, much of what we have can be reviewed tomorrow when we are all present.”  
With a curt nod in agreement, “Very well,” was all he said in turn.  
“Go on, Commander. Return to our men. We know you likely have much to consider for our fresh faces.” Leliana spurred at last.  
Beginning to gather his paperwork to depart, he saw the quickly scrawled notes he had made earlier that morning. “Ah – yes. Additionally, there are adjustments to details that I will be making starting this evening.” He informed, passing a copy of the patrol plans for appraisal, “it should prevent resurgence within the area from bandits, and make the roads safer for refugees and soldiers alike.”  
“I find that wise, though you must realize – no one blames you for what happened.” Josephine extended a quill towards Varric’s note where it lay on the war table.  
“Yes, well…” he muttered, excusing himself. _They may not blame me - but I do_ , he left the thought unspoken as he strode out of the war room with a dignity he didn’t truly feel.

><><><><><><

The minstrel’s voice rang clear as she sang to the patrons of the Singing Maiden, but the crowd had not come to hear her song. Oddly enough, her instrumental accompaniment was the main attraction this breezy eve. Curious as to the hoots and hollers from the pub, Cullen had ambled his way there after leaving the Chantry. Sun glowing orange in its descent, Flissa had thrown open the shutters and propped the doors. It wasn’t every day that the weather allowed her to air out her tavern – nor was it every day that the Herald came to play.  
If the fortnight in the Hinterlands had tired her, she was not about to let it show. Sitting languidly upon the bar with an Inquisition-supplied helm jauntily crooked on her brow, the Herald strummed even the most taxing of chords with enviable ease.  
Celia – alchemist by day and tavern minstrel by night – leaned her shoulder against Lyrael comically as she began a local favourite, “Oh –! You know Andraste’s old Mabari, he don’t show up in the Chant! And if you ask those holy sisters, well, they’ll say Andraste can’t –“  
The Commander’s mouth parted in a smile, the crowd roared to life and sang the rest of the verse, “- Have had some big old smelly wardog. But all Ferelden knows it right: our sweet Lady needed someone, who would warm her feet at night!”  
All the while, Lyrael harmonized expertly with not just Celia, but with the mood of the entire crowd. She took cues from the growing claps for the pacing, and took care to add flourishes where the troops hovered over lines. Predicting the poignant part of the song arriving, she paused and called forth a bitter-sweet and sobering run of notes to pour from her lyre. The patrons rumbled mournfully, “Oh they thought the wounds had killed him, but then he limped out toward the fire. And Hessarian, he shed a tear, as that dog laid on the pyre.” She took a few moments to leave the, largely Fereldan, patrons to sniff back a tear to the melancholic tones she plucked reflectively and brought them all back to repeat the final lines of the chorus in triumph.  
“Again, again!” bellowed a grizzled ex-Templar that had just arrived with the Herald. His call became a rousing chant, that even the Herald had sense enough not to deny.  
Grasping each other in a humorous handshake, the women braced each other on the bar where they started a Haven-born song Celia had written with another local minstrel. “Now gather ye drunkards, that’s how these things begin.”  
“The songs of our heroes, of wars and our kin!” the ex-Templar from before called in his gruff voice to lead the response. As the song was quickly adopted and sung through chortles of laughter throughout the tavern as the Herald danced lightly on the bar, playing when she could.  
Unsure of how long he had lingered in the door, existing as another pair of shoulders amongst the spectators, Cullen felt inexplicably captured by her. Long, white tresses framed her round and open face, cascading past her shoulders. The snowy waves stood stark against her dark robes, drawing his eyes guilelessly down her petite, pear-shaped frame. The seemingly delicate elf had survived much in the brief time that he’s known her, and Maker take him,he had never seen a woman so difficult to pin down. From her steeled confidence in the war room, to the open-hearted frankness he had seen that afternoon in the valley, to the nigh roguish jester hopping amongst the rank and file before him. _Who is this woman?_  
“She really is something else, isn’t she?” marveled someone he had hoped to avoid, “I expect you are here to take up my advice and buy her that pint?”  
“Hardly,” he responded flatly. Varric was as meddlesome as always. _As if I need his input._  
“Oh? Just came by to stare slack-jawed then?” The return was a bit tongue-in-cheek.  
He decided to let that one slip, “I hadn’t expected…”  
“What?” Varric turned to him, and he readied himself for further needling, “Didn’t expect her to have her weave such a _spell_ over you?”  
“N-no! That’s not what I meant… I-I, it’s…” Cullen flushed, suddenly feeling caught. It was as if Varric had read his mind.  
“Yeah, I know Curly,” with a sigh, the dwarf looked away and patted him on the shoulder. That is to say, he would have. Considering the height difference between the two, it landed a few inches below his shoulder blade, thudding dully on his armor. “She’s not really what anyone expected – but I am starting to really believe that will be to our favour.”  
Seeing the way her antics rallied the men and women together, he was inclined to agree.

><><><><><><

**Cassandra**

* * *

Eyes cracking open, she blinked past the blur and took stock of her injuries – just as she did every morning. Lower back still sore from weeks of constant riding was to be expected. The aching and twinges of pain around her shoulders and neck were not. The snapping and popping of pine logs lain recently onto the hearth were not at all what she was expecting, _where am I?_

Lyrael’s still form in a quilt-laden armchair relaxed her some. _Back in Haven then_ , she landed with a ‘whump’ amongst the pillows piled beneath her. A sound she regretted as soon as she saw the Herald rouse. Quietly, she watched her stretch and rise to place a kettle over the fire.  
“Though it may be hard, you should try and rest longer,” the Herald soothed, now folding the blankets and moving the chair away from the fire – back to where it seemingly belonged.  
“What time is it?” Cassandra questioned, ignoring Lyrael’s advice and moving toward the edge of the bed.  
Eyes narrowed in annoyance, the elf hummed a nasally sound in irritation. Plain that she would not get an answer out of her over-bearing healer, the Seeker laced up her boots and made her way to the window to find out for herself. “Nearly dawn.”  
“If you are going to proceed like normal, at least let me help you break the fast and give you a looking-over.” Lyrael persisted. Cassandra realized she was, more than not, accustomed to resistant patients.  
“Fine” she agreed. There was some sense to putting something in her belly.  
While the Herald sliced some dark-coloured bread and dug about her shelves, Cassandra busied herself with donning her normal attire. She was not sick and would not dress as such, she reasoned. Still, she folded the heavy linen nightgown with care, lest Lyrael feel her concern was unappreciated. Slipping her leather gloves through her belt while she fluffed the bedding and smoothed down the blankets, her bare fingers paused over worn patches in the fabric. She made a mental note to order new blankets from Threnn.  
A light pat on her arm turned her to find an offering outstretched from Lyrael’s hands. Stomach waking to the sight, she readily accepted the steaming mug of a healer’s tea and the slice of bread over-taken by butter. They ate in an amicable silence, watching the fire dance across the logs. They parted ways soon after. Lyrael went to check upon Adan’s potion-making and see how Solas was fairing, while Cassandra sought to check up on the Commander.  
Though she was impressed regarding his dedication to renounce Lyrium, both agreed observations from time to time were a necessity. It helped greatly that they were both working often towards similar projects for the Inquisition, so it drew little suspicion when she would drop in for a chat; a respectable level of discretion in which they were both all too happy to uphold. It would not do to have rumors of an incapable Commander stunting their young organization.  
Sauntering near the tents of his troops, she scanned the area for his ridiculous black mantel. Sure that he would be tending to his men right up to the war table meeting, she was getting frustrated when he was not near his usual haunts. Moments from giving up and turning her search to the Chantry, she finally spied him near the stables – nodding along to whatever Horsemaster Dennet was gesticulating. Cassandra rolled her shoulders with a huff, still working out the stiffness she had woken up to. A few strides from the men, she caught the tail end of their conversation.  
“I’ve been told of one sighted in an Orleasian market. Were I able to secure its safe passage, you would you be able to ensure its care once it arrived?” The Commander inquired the Horsemaster.  
The seemingly lack of confidence in him caused Dennet to puff his chest out in pride, “What do you take me for? There isn’t a beast alive I can’t board!”  
“Fair enough,” chuckled Cullen warmly, “ready a stall.”  
Smile returning on the older man’s face, “Count on it, poor beast deserves a rescue from those frumpy Orleasians!”  
Shaking his head in laughter, the Commander turned to see Cassandra approaching. “Good morning.” He nodded evenly.  
They had known each other well since she had convinced him to join the Inquisition, but it was always business with him. A conviction she was more than happy to uphold. “Yes, good morning, Commander. A word?”  
He dipped his head, and quietly lead her towards his tent. A corporal with a missive strode alongside them, reporting for a good portion of the walk. Cullen instructed here and there on how he wanted the concerns addressed amongst his men. All in all, he seemed to be as attentive to his duties as when she had left.  
Once they were away from prying ears, she gave him a long and withering look. It wasn’t until he started shifting from side to side and looking, generally, like a hound being scolded that she realized it had been several minutes since she had spoken. “And you feel?” she steeled, learning early on that he would give the most honesty when he was off-kilter.  
“Ah, yes, good.” He answered swiftly, glad to break the silence, “Body aches are less frequent…”  
“I sense an exception,” her eyes narrowed.  
“Except,” he sighed, relenting, “when I do have them now, they are twice as debilitating. The headaches have increased as well.”  
Cassandra nodded, satisfied he was being candid. “Interfering with your work? Have there been any visions?”  
“No! No distractions… thank the Maker, there are no hallucinations!” He sat on his cot, shoulders relaxed and posture open, “The worst I have confronted so far has been the pain. Sometimes I have to come in here and sit in the dark for a while. Just until the worst of it drifts over.” With his admission, he dropped his head and rested his arms on his knees.  
He was telling the truth. She was thankful he had just come out with it; the first few times she had attempted to get him to talk directly, it had made dragon taming seem easy.  
“I will talk with Lyrael.” She said at last, noting his head snap up silently. “Calm yourself, Cullen. It is your secret, and as it is not causing any _intrusion_ into your work, you are more than free to keep it. I only mean that she is a Healer. Surely there are all manner of potions she could provide to alleviate your pains.”  
He let his head drop again with a labourful exhale. She knew that there would not be a response, as he had retreated into himself.  
“It is your decision,” she concluded with a puff, recalling how she herself was not following the Herald’s advice. Perhaps she and the Commander were more alike than she had first thought.

><><><><><><

**Lyrael**

* * *

“You can’t be serious!” thundered the Commander. The disagreement evident even from outside the door, Lyrael listened from the corridor.  
The lighter tone that had carried in Josephine’s previous words cooled, “Mother Giselle isn’t wrong: at the moment, the Chantry’s only strength is that they are united in opinion.”  
“ – And we should ignore the danger to the Herald?” cut in Leliana.  
“Then let us ask her, once she arrives.” The Antivan finalized.  
Lyrael waited a few moments more, but sounds from the other side of the door had stilled. _This is all a bit childish_ , she thought, _at least the Chantry has a unified position – we surely do not._  
Feeling a bit unsure, she knocked lightly and let herself in. The Commander was the first to come into view; glowering over the map. Josephine and Leliana stood still and looked toward Cassandra. Following their example, she took a good look at the Seeker. The bruise around her left eye was already starting to fade, and she sported it as a sickly-yellow halo in the suffocating silence.  
“I heard what you have been discussing.” Lyrael admitted, not meeting their gaze. “Everyone seemed so vexed, it seemed wise to stay out of the way. If you want my opinion, I am honestly concerned that this won’t actually solve anything.”  
“I agree,” Cullen jumped up, “it just lends credence to the idea that we should care what the Chantry says.”  
“That is not what I am saying.” The Herald cut him off flatly. Everyone’s protests caught in their throats. _Piss on it all, where do I get the cheek?_ She cursed inwardly. Too late to back down, she stared at them, “Will we defeat ourselves before the demon-cursed Breach does? We need to work together. Differing opinions should be a strength, not something to divide us, and most certainly not as a battle to yell the loudest!”  
Light undulated from the candles as the advisors shuffled, thinking thoughts to their own audience. Growing impatient, Lyrael spoke again, “Prepare for Val Royeaux. Let us at least assess the situation there. Plan for us to remain in Haven for a few days before departure. I will not have the stitching on Solas’ leg come undone. Unless there are other matters, I will leave you to the arrangements and for you to figure things out between the four of you.” Cassandra and Cullen nodded in obedient agreement, but Leliana passed Josephine a knowing glance.  
“Actually, Herald,” Josephine painted over her shock with diligence. It was clear none had anticipated her forthright admonishment, but she was trying to persist with her duties. “There was a letter from your clan. I have it here, along with a draft of my response if you would like to review it.”  
Taking a few moments to scan the letter, she tossed it brusquely aside and took up Josephine’s response. While she studied the neat, polite paragraphs, the corners of her mouth pulled taut.  
“Herald, is there something wrong?” She heard the Commander encourage.  
“You have no doubt reviewed my history – or what you could uncover. I will advise you now:” She passed the papers back to the Ambassador, “I was excommunicated by them. As far as I am concerned, Clan Lavellan lost all rights to any of my information the moment they abandoned me in Kirkwall.”  
Josephine recovered quickly, offering apologies, “I had not realized – “  
With a steady breath, she held her usual unassuming demeanor, “Josie, I say this not because it upsets me. It is important that all here know that these Dalish Elves are just another group scrying for information they can levy into power. Use whatever information they send us, but do not return ravens.”

><><><><><><

**Cullen**

* * *

Lyrael had excused herself from the meeting not long after, and in her absence, Leliana expressed relief regarding the matter with her Clan. Cullen, on the other hand, was still feeling the brunt of the elf’s chiding, and he wasn’t the only one, it seemed. The remainder of the meeting progressed slowly, but with more cooperation than they had in weeks. Leliana had mapped out a relatively uneventful trek to Val Royeaux, and Josephine organized accommodation enough where the Herald would be able to attend audience with Madame de Fer. Though he was ready to have a fully dressed score of guards to accompany them, Cassandra and Leliana convinced him to trust in the Nightingale’s agents for security.  
They agreed that Lyrael was wise in insisting the group take a few days to recoup. Though Solas and Cassandra were recovering quickly, pushing a knee injury too quickly was bad for horses and people alike. After Cassandra had recounted what she was able to remember of her fighting, the group brightened at the prospects of Lyrael learning offensive techniques. None were disillusioned that she would become a great warrior-mage to rival a Tevinter magister, but the possibility that she would be able to properly defend herself became likely. The new troop movements were received well in the war room, and he was ready to return to the recruits that had just arrived from the Hinterlands.  
He thought wryly over the adage that ‘an army marches on its stomach’ as he made his way to the Singing Maiden for a bit of whatever was roasting over the hearth this evening. Wafting tendrils of charred ram greeted him as he ambled into the tavern. The delicate notes of a lute were a welcome sound, as it was rare that someone played while Varric was telling his tales. He felt the beginning pangs of pain in his temples as he was requesting his meal, and decided to pair it with a dark ale. Remembering his father’s gruff wisdom ‘many a man’s ills can be cured by dark ale’, he took a deep swill and found a corner out of the way.  
The music dwindled and died as the lutist began packing her instrument away. As Flissa rounded the corner of the bar with his meal, the hooded performer intercepted to deliver it for her. She greeted him pleasantly, pulling her hood back on her head just far enough so that he could see the pale skin and bright eyes of the Herald.  
Placing a hand on his vambrace, she motioned him to remain calm, “Just act like I’m some barmaid that is flirting to weasel coin out of your purse. If they realize that I am the Herald, any chance of a conversation will be over-run with admirers.”  
Despite trying to relax him, her request put him on edge. Facing down charging soldiers or slashing through demons were easy. Managing to complete sentences around the fairer sex was always a challenge, even when not flirting. His unease must have been plain, as she patted his arm once more in reassurance before providing distance between them.  
“What would you like to discuss?” He tried to be nonchalant, removing his gloves and picking up a boiled potato. The savory roast ram soon caught a good portion of his attention, his earlier hunger returning with a rumbling complaint.  
“Did everyone end up playing nice, in the end?” She teased lightly.  
“I – uh, yes.” He admitted, “I am sure I speak for all of us when I extend an apology regarding our behaviour.”  
“Oh, come now.” She waved off, “I’d be more concerned if you all didn’t fight from time to time.”  
A few minutes passed peacefully. She spent them, chin resting on her hand, watching soldiers wander in and out. Besides the faint hum and pulse the anchor pulled on the veil around them, her form was still and quiet. A quiet buzzing in the veil around her hand corresponded with her clinching her fist in reflex.  
Clearing his throat, “Does it hurt?”  
“Sometimes,” she whispered, not turning to him.  
He nodded regardless, “Been having headaches and body pains, myself” he found himself admitting. It was easy to talk to her, there was a lack of expectation that was almost freeing.  
She turned back to him, face sober and he braced himself for an onslaught of questions. None came. “I’ll ready an elixir. It will be strong though, so you will have to dilute it according to your pain. A small spoonful mixed in your evening drink will aid you on tough days, a few drops on your tongue will relieve smaller bouts.”  
“I-It will be much appreciated.” He stumbled, finding her hand draping his fore-arm once more. The casual touch was supportive, and he set to finishing his meal without worrying himself about divulging more. Patting him solidly before removing her hand had him searching for the words to regain her attention.  
He debated whether or not to tell her what he had discussed with Dennet earlier that afternoon. As she stood and made her way over to the bar to aid Flissa, her distraction gave him pause. _She’s had enough business today_ , he decided at last.  
Rising to finish his evening duties and turn in for the night, he found himself grinning as he walked through Haven. He replayed her thick-soled boots thudding across the tavern in his mind. The sight of her wearing a pair of stockings he had sent her while she was in the Hinterlands made him all the more determined to obtain a Hart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the large gap between the last chapter and this one. I have had some pretty big hills I have had to climb on the personal and professional fronts in the last few weeks. Not least of which, I lost two lovely pets that I was very close to... Chai and Paisley will be missed. 
> 
> This chapter may seem a bit laggy from where I started and stopped it so many times over the last few weeks, but I hope to pick up a weekly or bi-weekly schedule starting now.
> 
> Thank you for understanding, and con/crit is always welcome.

**Author's Note:**

> Whoo! Thank you for reading! As this is my first fanfic, I appreciate all constructive criticism and grammatical awareness.
> 
> As tagged, I hope to explore more than just he romance aspect of the Lavellan Inquisitor's time with the Inquisition. AKA this will be a slow build and a slow burn, but I do hope you will come along for the journey.
> 
> Thanks again,  
> Pandalist


End file.
